


A Very Potterlock Christmas

by CatieBrie



Series: A Very Potterlock Series [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 25 Days of Fic-mas, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Mrs. Hudson Ships It, Muggle Sherlock, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Alternating, Potterlock, Slow Build, Wizard John, john sings celestina warbeck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-10
Updated: 2016-06-20
Packaged: 2018-05-06 00:51:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 27,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5396612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CatieBrie/pseuds/CatieBrie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Wizarding…” Sherlock trailed off catching the word John had foolishly hoped he’d miss.</p><p>“Yeah, that’s the kicker.” John tried to continue and it stuck in his throat. <em>Coward</em>, he thought viciously at himself.</p><p>Sherlock waited, uncertain and intent and John drained his glass, waiting for the burn to settle a little stronger in his stomach. He took a deep breath and on the exhale finally managed to force free: “I’m a wizard.”</p><p>--</p><p>A series of interconnected potterlock ficlets based on these <a href="http://hudders-and-hiddles.tumblr.com/post/134308673979/25-days-of-fic-mas"> prompts</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Shopping for Gifts

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alexxphoenix42](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexxphoenix42/gifts), [jinglebell](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jinglebell/gifts), [Teh_Poet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teh_Poet/gifts).



> There will be about 20-25 of these ficlets, most which are direct continuations of each other and some that are just set within the same universe but all based on these [ prompts](http://hudders-and-hiddles.tumblr.com/post/134308673979/25-days-of-fic-mas).

John didn’t mind the holidays, really; they just struck him as bittersweet and sometimes wanting.  Something always niggling deep in his belly, nostalgic and fuzzy with age.

Shopping in muggle London-–crowded and jostled about as he tried to think of gifts for the people invariably sharing his life–-reminded him of his school years, of Hogwarts and Hogsmeade; the giant crackers stacked on the pushed together House tables as he and the rest of the misfits unwilling or unable to return home stuffed their faces with sweets and rich foods. The trips the oldest of them would take to Hogsmeade, bringing along covert lists from the younger students as they all tried to cobble together something special and warm.  

The cramped and crooked wizarding shops had been such a wonder to him as a boy, especially decked out as they’d been in bright tinsel and actual-faerie faerie lights; enchanted snowmen greeting him at store entrances and offering industrial grade warming charms to anyone who came close enough. Those years had been the brightest holidays of his life, had become the glowing memories that fueled his patronus and kept him fighting through the Second Wizarding War.  

And after the War, when he kept himself well tucked away from wizarding London, having done his part and earned his rest  _thankyouverymuch,_  they were the things that kept him awake at night missing it all. 

As he picked through trinkets and baubles and liquors and gift baskets, trying desperately to find the perfect something for an admittedly ambivalent Sherlock back at their flat, he couldn’t help but wonder how much easier it would be to nip over to Diagon Alley and bring back something as simple as a Self-Inking Quill or a set of Gobstones to place in front of him. John could imagine the wonder and frustration that would crinkle those verdigris eyes, the way Sherlock’s nose would wrinkle as he tried to figure out the trick.  He’d be busy for days, completely stonewalled by the impossible, faced with the improbable.

John relished the idea of gifting Sherlock a mystery that only John had the answer to. 

John sighed, giving the day’s venture up for lost as he realized he’d picked through an entire display of jumpers and not remembered a single color by the last stack.  The thing in his hand now was horrid, a lurid green slashed through with bright red ribbons and large, gaudy bells that sang cheerfully at John as he shook it.  It reminded him of the jumpers Molly Weasley sent him, the ones with a giant J in the middle of a myriad of colors that John was certain Charlie had insisted she send him.  He still had them tucked away somewhere, worn out and far too small as they were.

John ended up buying the jumper, hugging it to his chest to keep it from announcing his every step and giving that up for a lost cause once it had been deposited into a bag. Walking home, jingling the entire way, he determined to brave the London shopping crowd again tomorrow with a list in his pocket and his nostalgia left at the flat where it wouldn’t distract him.


	2. Hot Cocoa

The rich smell of chocolate overwhelmed Sherlock as soon as he stepped into the flat.  

It shifted across Sherlock’s nose, soft as a caress before settling in his stomach as an ache for a tradition he had tried to  _forget_ , tried not to miss.  But he had, he’d missed it terribly when he Left (always a capital L) and even more so when John did.  He inhaled deeply, drawing the smell in, allowing the ache to settle more firmly as he stopped his ascent.

Sherlock didn’t need to be in the kitchen to know John stood over the stove, humming unplaceable songs as he watched the pot of milk come to a boil. Cocoa powder would cover every workable surface, some sifted into his hair, brushed across his cheek.  A bowl of hand-combined ingredients would sit to the side, ready to be added to the milk and, while John didn’t much care for them, he’d still have tiny marshmallows hidden somewhere for Sherlock’s sweet tooth.

Sometimes John had peppermint ground down to a coarse powder to add to the mix, other times caramel and sea salt.  All in all, the flat from the beginning until the end of December would smell of something dark and warm and homey and under it all, something sad.

Sherlock quietly crept up the steps, overcome by a melancholic remembrance. The domestic bit of gourmet never quite sat right on John’s shoulders, a man who could hardly be bothered to brew a proper cup of tea and whose culinary height had been the thing with the peas in it, and as such those same shoulders always seemed to draw in.  Creeping closer and closer to Christmas and John would hum louder, smile brighter and not ever realize that he looked sadder for it.  Sherlock never asked, for once inexplicably nervous to breach a touchy subject.

Sherlock finally came back to himself as he crested the landing with old memories still fluttering at the corners of his eyes; hanging up his coat, he kept every movement quiet, not wanting to disturb the returned tradition blossoming again in their flat.  Sure enough, the soft tones of John’s humming filtered through to Sherlock, peppered with odd lyrics that just…Sherlock stopped, listening in earnest to the words:

_…I’ve got a cauldron full of hot, strong love_

_And it’s bubbling for you!…_

Sherlock wrinkled his nose, never having heard John put words to his humming.  He didn’t seem to have noticed Sherlock’s entrance, so he continued to sing even as Sherlock tip-toed into the kitchen doorway to watch. Cocoa powder, as Sherlock remembered, covered everything in a thin, dusty layer, as if John had purposefully flung it about.  He might have, with the way his shoulders were held tight at his ears and his spine refused to unlock; it was obvious John had had a rough day.

 _…Say_  Incendio,  _but that spell’s not hot_

_As my special witch’s brew!…_

The lyrics made less and less sense as John sang, wooden spoon clanging against the pot’s walls as he stirred the heating milk. A bit splashed, hitting the hob with a hiss. “Bugger.”

Sherlock leaned against the doorframe, surprised John had yet to notice him.  John went to the sink, soaking a linen in water before swiping it over the hob around the pot, steam rising immediately around it.  He placed the cloth down and continued stirring, the sound of the milk rising to a roiling simmer reaching Sherlock’s piqued ears.

_…Don’t you be afraid, come and take a sip_

_Of this steamy, tasty treat!…_

On the table, amongst tins and bowls of cocoa powder and sugar and peppermint and marshmallows, lay a bag partially opened over something horrid and green and red–-silver glinted on what Sherlock thought must be a bell.  The thing was woolen, scratchy and hideous and Sherlock could not hold his tongue against his disturbance.  “What on earth is that monstrosity?”

John jumped, turning wide eyed to Sherlock, spoon clutched to his chest and dripping foamy milk down the handle.  “ _Christ_ , Sherlock, you nearly gave me a heart attack! How long have you been there?”

Sherlock ignored the question and pointed at the offending object.  “That.  What is  _that_?”

John followed Sherlock’s finger to the mass of fiber and gaudy color. His face did something funny, like it was trying to decide between indignation and amusement and could not settle on either.  “It’s a jumper.”

“You cannot mean to wear that.”

John’s face broke out into something of a terrifying grin and Sherlock backed away, suddenly wary of his spoon wielding, song-singing flatmate.  “No, it’s for you.”

“You must be joking,”  Sherlock choked out, curiosity getting the better of him as he pulled the thing from its plastic prison. It unfolded into a jumper shape, true to John’s words, and the bit of silver was in fact a bell.  He was admittedly very relieved to see it was not in his size.  That relief was short lived when he realized it was in John’s.  He dropped it to the table, disturbed.

“Alas, yes.  But I think it would be rather fetching against your skin tone, don’t you agree?” John went back to stirring the milk, voice popped up an octave as he mimicked, at least in part, good cheer.  A question, one that he knew would destroy the fabricated peace around them, perched at the tip of Sherlock's tongue.  But he couldn’t ask it, not when he’d finally gotten a bit of his old life with John back.  

So instead he sneered and retorted, “Absolutely not.”

“Your loss.”  John laughed, a bit of the tension leaving him on the delighted sound.  It warmed Sherlock to hear it. He finally left his place in the doorway to peer around John’s shoulders only to be elbowed gently back as John removed the now boiling pot of milk from the hob, bringing it over to two mugs already filled with hand mixed cocoa; he poured into each, tendrils of brown swirling into the white.  Bits of powdered chocolate floated immediately to the top of the mugs, caught in bubbles of liquid as John slowly stirred the mix in. They popped, viscous milk peeling away from the powder before it all dissolved, ceramic lip coated in what little of it refused to cooperate.  Sherlock always liked sucking on the rim of his mug, the sharp bitterness of simple cocoa melting seamlessly into the sweet drink to follow.

John held one mug out to him and then indicated the peppermint bits and marshmallows.  “Those are for you.”

“Thank you.”  Sherlock said, once again feeling that ache at the pit of his stomach throb. He decided not to question the stiffness of John’s shoulders, nor the strange nature of John’s song and just enjoy, just for today, the comforts of holidays at home.

He did, however, decide to treat that jumper to a horrible demise at the earliest opportunity. 


	3. Winter Wonderland

”Come on, John, we’re going to be late!”

John waved Charlie away with a laugh, searching about the common room for his scarf.  Amongst all the red and gold, it should have stood out, but there was nary a sign of yellow and black and he had a funny feeling Charlie had hidden it.

“It’s freezing out, mate. I need my scarf.”

“Wear one of mine.”  And there it was, that cheeky grin confirmed John’s suspicions. Charlie had an armful of Gryffindor paraphernalia but nothing of John’s Hufflepuff winter gear.  John pointed at him, accusingly.

“You have it, don’t you?”

“Oh, come on, you look better in Gryffindor colors.”

John laughed, shaking his head, not mentioning how much he hated their colors.  “What’d you do with it–come on, I need the bloody thing.”

“Pleassssseeee wear mine,”  Charlie begged, offering up one of the two scarves bundled in his arms.  John wrinkled his nose at him, wanting to argue but they really would be late if he did.

“Oh,  _fine._ ” John grumbled. “But you better damn well give me mine back when we’re finished.”

“On Merlin’s saggy pants,” Charlie said, holding up his fingers in an approximation of scout’s honor, nearly dropping all articles in his arms as he did.  John sometimes regretted teaching him that; Charlie treated the gesture like some unbreakable muggle oath and it was too damn adorable.  Stalking over to the much too tall Charlie, John snatched the scarf from him, stretching up on his toes to press a chaste kiss to Charlie’s still grinning lips.

“Alright then, let’s go.”

The quidditch pitch glowed, covered in unbelievably thick layers of dense snow. The air nipped at John’s ears making him almost regret not grabbing a hat from Charlie’s pile of winter gear on the way out, but the scarf already screamed shagged-by-a-Gryffindor, he didn’t need anything else to make that announcement any louder.  All around him stretched the makings of a winter wonderland, frosted trees and newly pinned up garlands and tinsel decorating the castle and surrounding grounds; couples scooted close together on stone benches to share warming charms and a few students worked on snow sculptures that came to life when spelled hats or scarves were placed upon them.

John saw a battlefield spread out before him; the knot of students at its center the soldiers readying for battle.

“Oh good, they haven’t started,” Charlie said, grabbing John’s arm to hurry him along.  Snow crunched beneath their feet and came dangerously close to packing in their boots as they jogged towards the group of students chatting loudly.  All in long black winter robes, they seemed possessed of nothing but the red and gold of Gryffindor except for a tall Ravenclaw boy and two Hufflepuff girls, one older and one younger, bringing blue and yellow to the mix; John felt a little pang at the lack of Slytherin green but pushed it aside as he and Charlie were noticed and shouted at:

“About bloody time you two got here!”

“Nice scarf, John!”

“Can we start now–

“–we’re freezing our bollocks off!”

“Fred, George! Language!” Charlie snapped barely hiding an amused grin from the lanky twin boys smirking up at him. 

“You say worse,” one boy said as the other stuck out his tongue and the rest of the group laughed.

“I’m older.” 

“Wotcher, John,” the older Hufflepuff girl said, coming around to stand beside him as the Weasley brothers bickered; she eyed John’s scarf with a knowing smirk, bumping her shoulder against his. “So that’s where you were last night.”

“ _Tonks_.” John groaned, his cheeks heating; he knew better than to expect his nosy best friend to lay off him. She snickered, what was visible of her hair beneath her hat turning brighter and brighter red, no doubt to mock his flaming cheeks.  

“You sneaky bastard.”  

John opened his mouth to respond but he was cut over by the magically amplified voice of Charlie beside him, wand to his throat as he bellowed: “IF I COULD HAVE YOUR ATTENTION, IT IS TIME WE START THE MERLIN-KNOWS-WHAT-NUMBER ANNUAL HOGWARTS’ SNOWBALL BATTLE.”

John winced against the loud assault, but cheered with the rest of them. When Charlie opened his mouth to continue, John hurriedly grabbed his hand, pulling his wand away from his throat so that Charlie’s voice came out at a more bearable level.  “You have already divided up into teams according to Tom, so I suppose one of you gets John and the other gets me.”

“We get John!” Tonks yelled, already pulling John away from Charlie. John sputtered as she nearly toppled the both of them into the snow in her enthusiasm.

“Fair enough.” Charlie laughed and stepped back so that a clear line appeared between two evenly divided groups. “Five minutes to prepare and then let the war begin!”

–-

John lay back in the snow, breath heavy and face stinging against the cold.  Tonks fell to the ground beside him, hair the pale blonde it became when she reached a level of unbearable exhaustion.  “We beat ‘em”

“Yeah.” John was aching from head to toe and soaked through with melted snow. “We did.”

“Those twins have some power behind them.”

“Bet you anything they become beaters.”

“Like hell I’m taking that bet, it’s a sure deal. Especially with a brother like Charlie.”  Tonks struggled with her robes, trying to find her wand in the inner pockets.  When she did she cast a half hearted warming charm over the both of them, light steam raising up from their clothing.  “Speaking of Charlie.”

“John, Tonks!” John struggled to sit up, less inclined to move now that he wasn’t so cold. Charlie jogged over to them, all energy and wet red hair.  John groaned, falling back as he reached them. “Great game!”

“How do you still have energy?”

“Tom had pepperup potions,” he said as he sat on the other side of John. Turning his head to look closely, John could see steam pouring in light waves from Charlie’s ears, a sure side effect of the potion.

“Those are for colds.”

“We were cold.”

“A vitamix potion would have been better,” John mumbled sleepily, wishing he had one.  Now that they had settled, the battle done and over and most of the participants well on their way back to their common rooms to warm up, John remembered the pang he’d felt before.  “Why weren’t there any Slytherins today?”

There was a heavy moment of silence before Tonks said, like it answered the question: “We only had the one Ravenclaw.”

“The Ravenclaws never come to the Battle, we always have exams the next week. I’m surprised Clarence made time this year, actually.” John frowned up at the sky, not looking at either Charlie nor Tonks as he watched the overcast clouds shift in sluggish undulations, light snow falling against his face.  It would get heavier by sundown, filling in the footprints and trenches and holes created in the pursuit of their snowball war.  “We invited the Slytherins, didn’t we?”

“I don’t know why you care, they’re all a bunch of stuck up arseholes,” Charlie mumbled, jaw clenching in John’s periphery.  John sighed, his breath misting in front of him–he didn’t want to have this argument but…

“That’s a no then.”  John forced himself up again, wincing against the ache in his swinging arm.  “Charlie, it’s the Hogwarts' Snowball Battle, not the Gryffindor plus whomever Gryffindor likes Snowball Battle.”

“Nobody likes Slytherin,” Tonks offered, but she sounded appropriately shamed.  Charlie however just sat up straighter, stubborn as ever.

“Nobody likes them because nobody gives them a chance,” John reasoned, regretting that he’d said anything to begin with.  

“They’d do the same thing if given a chance–-no good comes out of that House.” Charlie crossed his arms over his chest, turning his head to glare at John with clear, angry blue eyes. “They don’t deserve a chance.

“I was supposed to be Slytherin,” John snapped, stung into honesty. He cursed his tongue when Tonks and Charlie looked at him, wide eyed and disbelieving.

“No, you were supposed to be Gryffindor,” Charlie said slowly.  “You were a hatstall with Gryffindor.”

“And lucky us you chose Hufflepuff, best beater we’ve ever had,” Tonk added.

“No, you only assumed my hatstall was with Gryffindor. I never told you that.” John felt his anger rising, quiet beneath his chest. He got to his feet, struggling a bit as his boots slipped in slush around him.  “I think I’m going to nap before supper, you better have my scarf with you, Charlie.”

“Yeah,” Charlie said, still staring at John shell shocked. “Yeah.”

John unwound the Gryffindor scarf from his neck and dropped it in Charlie’s lap, immediately missing the warmth as he walked away.

–-

The memory still remained one of John’s favorites, despite the argument.  He pulled it out at the first snow, wrapping it around his shoulders for the warmth and comfort against the growing malaise. The rest of that evening had only improved; Charlie had joined him and Tonks at the Hufflepuff table, all apologies and questions and strategically lacking John’s scarf.  Charlie’s dorm had been warm that night, his bed even warmer.  

John smiled, looking out at Baker Street below him, the streets slowly turning to white as if dusted with icing sugar.  A familiar figure glided towards the flat, long coat billowing out behind him and John couldn’t help the swell of affection that blossomed in his chest.  Sherlock looked up right before disappearing from view and John waved, receiving a bemused smile and tiny wave in return.

 


	4. Christmas Cards

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While they are all connected, this is a direct continuation of the last one.

Holly and tinsel crept from Mrs. Hudson’s flat like the arms of an invading, sparkling beast and Sherlock knew that soon it will have conquered his and John’s flat–-probably when the both of them were out or asleep or otherwise occupied enough for her to sneak about.  Sherlock still hadn’t figured out  _how_  she managed it, but it was just as much a part of the holidays as John’s hot cocoa and Mycroft’s insistence they sit down like a real family for a Christmas meal (Mummy’s influence, Sherlock was sure).

Sherlock kicked a bit of glittering silver out of the way, musing over the odd little smile John had worn as he waved to Sherlock from the window, eyes warm and fuzzed around the edges as if trying to live in both the past and present and somehow pleased by both.  The stairs creaked beneath his feet as he slowly made his way up, stopped by Mrs. Hudson leaving her room.

“Oh good, I thought I heard you come in,” she said with a warm smile.  The scent of baking biscuits swirled out around her, mixing sinfully with the now permanent aroma of drinking chocolate from upstairs.  His stomach growled and Mrs. Hudson glared pointedly, but didn’t say a word. “I have some mail for John, found it outside my door without a bit of postage on it, if you can believe it. Do you mind bringing it to him? It’s just my hip, you see.”

“Of course,” he said, happy to escape a lecture even if she showed none of the signs of her hip actually giving her issue.  He took the stack of envelopes (thick stock, John’s name written across the back in scratching penmanship; perhaps with a fountain pen? A quill?) and smiled at her before continue his way upstairs.  He flipped each envelope over, three in total, trying to find a clue as to where they’d come from, but aside from John’s name and the odd material (he thought he knew all common and uncommon paper types in the area, but this was new) he had nothing to go on.

“Make sure John feeds you something!” He thought he might have heard, but he was already wrapped up in the mystery, opening one of the envelopes without any concern for John’s privacy. The letter he pulled out, to his surprise, unraveled into a single long length of old parchment, smelling much like Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen.  He ignored the words at first, more interested in the photograph still within the envelope, assuming it would provide him with the most information.  He had reached the landing, ready to hang up his coat and keep abusing John’s privacy, but the photograph stopped him short.

_That’s impossible._

At first it appeared to be a standard family Christmas photograph, most of the figures violently redheaded and freckled and utterly too happy to have their picture taken.  But then they moved, poking and prodding each other into more appealing poses; the only black haired man was grabbed by the arm and dragged to the center, nearly buried by the lot of them.  He escaped, laughing, into the arms of a pointy faced blonde, who wrinkled his nose in obvious discomfort.  Sherlock watched, utterly enthralled and so beyond baffled he didn’t have a word for it.  He flipped the photo over, bent it to see if maybe it possessed some sort of microtechnology embedded within it. but no, for all intents and purposes, this was a normal photograph. Except it was moving.

“Sherlock? Is that you?” John came out from the living area, still smiling that odd little smile of his until he caught Sherlock with the photo.  Sherlock looked up, loathing that he couldn’t reign in his wonder even as John’s face drained of all color.

“Shit.”  John cursed just as Sherlock asked; “How are they moving?”


	5. Ghost of Christmas Past

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While they are all connected, this is a direct continuation of the last one.

Sherlock had the photo held up, image out to John and eyes wide with wonder, confusion.  John stared stupidly as the Weasleys (plus quite a few others) noticed him and waved, crowding forward like a cheerful sea of redheads.  

“John, answer me.”

John swallowed, tilting his eyes back up to Sherlock’s and having not a single word of explanation.  His wand lay in a box under his bed in case of emergencies he'd be able to do nothing about, but even if he had it in him, the thought of  _obliviating_ such a wonderful, brilliant mind physically pained him. 

“Technology has truly advanced?” John finally tried and Sherlock’s raised eyebrow showed just how believable that excuse was. John sighed heavily, running a hand through his hair with such force he was sure the ends stuck up like the spines of a hedgehog, prickly and defensive.  

“Absolutely not,” Sherlock said after a moment of rolling the photo between his hands to demonstrate its flexibility, thinness and utter lack of anything but one glossy and one matte side.  An ordinary piece of printed paper–-except for the moving figures looking rather disgruntled with Sherlock’s handling.  “This is simply not possible.”

“Oh, it’s possible.” John held out his hand and Sherlock handed him the photo reluctantly.  Having it directly under his nose, John could properly see the absences: George looked gaunt and lonely without Fred at his side and Charlie, so rarely at these occasions having fucked off to Romania ages ago, left a larger hole than he realized with the death of his brother; he recognized Teddy belatedly when his hair shifted from typical Weasley red to vibrant candied blue and the lack of Tonks sunk in like a time-released poison, slowly slinking through his veins.  John found the melancholy that typically followed him around this time of year grow heavy enough to hurt, the hand of his Christmases past like a cold, ghostly weight at his shoulder.  He barely found it in himself to look away and fix Sherlock with a halfhearted glare.  “You shouldn’t have been snooping in my mail. Haven’t you heard of privacy?”

Sherlock ignored him, eyes bright with something unreadable. With what seemed to be a physical effort he left off his curiosity about _how_ and transferred it to what he might have thought a safer topic. “Who are they?”

“You didn’t read the letter?”  

“Too busy with the impossible photograph.”  Sherlock held out the opened letter along with two unopened ones, surprising John.  He usually only ever got the one from Molly. John took them to his chair, Sherlock following him closely with silent persistence.  John opened one of the letters, surprised by the clumsy scrawl of Teddy Lupin, the short note begging him to return for Christmas.

_“Molly won’t admit it for fear of pushing (you know how she is), but she misses you terribly.  We all do.”  
_

“John?” John started at the heavy concern there, only to realize his eyes have pricked with emotion and he must look a sight.  He blinked hard and then smiled at Sherlock stiffly, stuffing the parchment back in its envelope and pointedly ignoring the last letter, the one with the familiar spiky script of Charlie. 

“Yes, sorry about that.”

“John,  _explain_.” 

John started to laugh, he couldn’t help it, the sound erupting from his lips before he could pull it back in. Sherlock had retreated to his own chair, but he had his hands folded beneath his chin, elbows propped on his knees to place him as close to John as he could possibly be. He looked desperately keen for John’s explanation, worry second only to his curiosity.  John shook his head, rubbing his hands over his face and back through his hair as he tried to think.   _Obliviate_  or the truth, those were his only real options and and one of them wasn't even truly viable.  “Christ, where to even begin?”

Sherlock sat in silence, prompting him to continue.  John laughed again, the sound hysterical even to his own ears.  “You won’t believe me either way.”

“Try me,” Sherlock rumbled, not taking his eyes off of John; they glowed brightly mercurial in the dim light of the flat, almost as if spelled. John needed a drink. Something strong, something biting. John stood and wandered to the kitchen, pouring himself three fingers of whiskey before returning to the living area. Sherlock hadn’t moved.

Well, might as well get it over with. It’s not like he had managed a normal muggle life anyway.

“Well, there’s quite a bit you don’t know about me,” John said and then drank heavily to steel his nerves. A line appeared between Sherlock’s brow and John continued before Sherlock could dispute that. “This is a wizarding photo, and they-–” John pulled the photo from were he’d wedged it in his seat and pointed at the family, “-–are the Weasleys.”

“Wizarding…” Sherlock trailed off catching the word John had foolishly hoped he’d miss.

“Yeah, that’s the kicker.” John tried to continue and it stuck in his throat.  _Coward,_ he thought viciously at himself _._

Sherlock waited, uncertain and intent and John drained his glass, waiting for the burn to settle a little stronger in his stomach. He took a deep breath and on the exhale finally managed to force free: “I’m a wizard.”


	6. The Nutcracker/ Baking

Mrs. Hudson had a secret.

She hummed _Sugarplum Fairy_ as she puttered about her flat, the rich smell of baking biscuits filling the small room, warm and spiced with cinnamon.  Tinsel followed the path of her fingers, neatly pinning itself in place as she lead it along her windowsills.

She wasn’t quite a witch.

Mrs. Hudson’s humming took her further along the notes of the Nutcracker soundtrack, urging her festive decorations to dance about and glitter brightly as she decided where it all would go. By the time she reached the middle of  _Marzipan_ , the flat fairly glowed with decorations, bright and cheerful and accented by the ever growing warmth of her baking.

She wasn’t quite a muggle.

Mrs. Hudson heard heavy footsteps upstairs, and then a long bout of silence that felt tense along her bones.  She made the right choice handing Sherlock those letters, she could see the way John yearned for his old life even as he held on to his new one, fingers dug in deep to a lost ideal of normalcy.  John thought he was holding on to a hope for a peaceful life but Mrs. Hudson knew that even if that were the reason he decided to live as a muggle originally, it now went deeper than that.  He feared losing Sherlock. 

Not even quite a squib.

As Mrs. Hudson opened her oven, sugar and cinnamon billowed around her, warming her face and hands as she removed the golden biscuits. She let the biscuits cool, keeping one ear open for yelling or exploding objects. She didn’t expect anything quite so dramatic, but then again her boys could be quite unpredictable when they wanted to be and both of them had such finicky tempers. She spun her finger over a cup of tea, the liquid suddenly steaming.

She was something else entirely.

John had real reason to fear, but his past would not be the reason he would lose Sherlock. It was his silence that would do it and Mrs. Hudson had had enough of sitting around watching the two of them act like idiots when she had the knowledge and ability to push them  _together._

And she knew John’s secret.

Mrs. Hudson continued humming, starting back on  _Marzipan_  as she sipped at her tea, content with her day’s work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I have this theory that there can be squibs or squib like individuals who retained some magic, but it only works for certain types of spells or charms. They aren’t strong enough to be classified as witches or wizards, but they have too much magic to be a plain squib. For Mrs. Hudson, her magic allows her to perform household/homemaking charms and while she can do these wandlessly, she cannot perform any other sort of magic even with a wand. This is how the the entirety of 221 gets decorated without John or Sherlock realizing.


	7. Making a Christmas List

“I’m a wizard.” John said it as if divulging a terrible truth, shoulders so tense they nearly reached his neatly cropped hairline. 

Sherlock had to have missed the punch line. 

“You’re joking, of course.”  Sherlock said and then wished he could swallow the words back down, if only to keep John’s face from falling the way it did.  But John  _had_ to be joking; a wizard? There was no such thing. Tentatively, afraid to make it worse, but needing to know:  “Right?”

John looked into his tumbler instead of at Sherlock, eying the bottom of it as if wishing it would refill. He eventually looked back up at Sherlock with a smile that did not quite reach his eyes. He shrugged. “I wish I were.”

A terrible silence settled around them, one Sherlock desperately wanted to break. John’s expressive face had shuttered down, brow smoothed into something spitefully neutral and Sherlock found himself unable to look at it, instead twitching his gaze down to where the impossible–-no, that was wrong– _improbable_  photograph lay across John’s knees.  The surface shifted with random movement, fiery red a dominating ripple of color, and for a moment John’s claim didn’t seem so far-fetched. 

 _…when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth._ Sherlock’s own words rang back at him, a painful clanging against what he knew to be true and what he was being told to be true.

 _“_ Prove it.” 

The light flickered back in John’s eyes, glittering suddenly the way they always did when faced with a challenge. “Yeah, okay. I can do that.”

John stood from his chair, stopped as if gathering himself and after a moment of thought, grabbed his empty glass and went to the kitchen.  Sherlock slid out of his own chair to follow but John held up the whiskey bottle in explanation. “Hold on, need a bit more of this.  Wait down here.”

John left with a full glass, heavy footsteps sounding on the stairs up to his room as Sherlock waited.  The table was a mess of cocoa powder and random papers, mostly aborted Christmas lists and hand scrawled recipes; his usual equipment was banished to one side to be forgotten until the new year. The hideous jumper still remained, tucked back away in plastic; the lurid green of the wool still peeked out mockingly. Sherlock wished to burn it.

John returned with a thin piece of polished wood approximately twelve inches in length, reddish in color and struck through with paler swirls-–most likely cedar.  If Sherlock looked closely, despite its polish, the wood–- _wand,_ his mind supplied helpfully–-was scraped and scarred and obviously well used.  John placed his once-again-empty glass back on the kitchen table and turned to Sherlock, holding up the wand. “I suppose you can guess what this is?”

Sherlock nodded.

“Alright, good. Um…”  John looked around, tapping the wand against his palm absently until his eyes lit on one of the half finished Christmas lists. To intent on the wand, Sherlock missed the flash of panic brightening John's eyes. “Something simple.”

Sherlock didn’t catch the word John muttered as he flicked his wrist, too shocked by the sudden movement on the table.  The paper folded into itself, sharp lines and crisp angles forming a crude paper crane that lifted from the table and flapped awkwardly around their heads, the paper not quite the right size for origami.

“I was always shite at transfiguration,” John choked but Sherlock paid little attention to that as well, following the crane without blinking, certain it would disappear. He reached for it, grabbing it gently from the air to hold in his wide palm.  It felt warm to the touch, fluttering about in gentle circles. Impossible– _improbable_. Wonderful.

“Believe me now?”

Sherlock looked up from the crane and even though he knew his eyes were spread open wide, he couldn’t be bothered to hide his wonderment. And it was John, he didn’t need to hide from John. 

“Do it again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so there are many reasons I chose the wand I did for John. Cedar wood usually choses people of unusual loyalty and strength of character and, according to Olivander, the person possessed of a cedar wand is not someone to be crossed. John is the kind of person I would never want to cross, but I wouldn't really know why until I tried... if that makes any sense at all. Also, though not revealed here and maybe not for a bit but unicorn hair is known to produce consistent magic, and least subjected to fluctuations; it's the core I'd imagine he'd have. Also, it's the same core Charlie had until passing his wand onto Ron. 
> 
> I also debated between Fir and Poplar for John, but Cedar won out.


	8. Scrooge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not a direct continuation of past chapters and I will return to John and Sherlock in the next one!

“Don’t be a Scrooge--” George said.

“--come on, John, get in the Christmas spirit--” Fred said.

“And help us!”  They chorus, bottom lips out in imploring pouts. John groaned, not sure how he’d gotten cornered by the twins but certain he wouldn’t escape now that they had him.

“You’re asking me to, what, exactly?”  

“Help us prank Charlie.” It really was uncanny how they did that, words in perfect sync.

“Why would I do that?”

“Because he trounced your team--”

“--and hasn’t stopped bragging about it.”

That was true. In the final game before Christmas Hols, Charlie had snatched the snitch after three hours of grueling back and forth point scoring. John wouldn’t admit it, but the play had been spectacular, Charlie spinning higher and higher into the air hand outstretched and butting against the Hufflepuff seeker right at his tail. John could only watch as suddenly he dropped--a speck growing larger and larger as he plummeted to the ground.

Charlie had pulled up hard from his dive, grinning from ear to ear, hand gripped tight around a frantically fluttering snitch. John hadn’t heard the end of it.

“Yeah, but what about you two?”

They shrugged. “We’re bored and he’s our brother.”

“Percy?”

“Will tattle as soon as we get home--”

“--Charlie won’t. He’s more fun.”

“Fair enough.”

“So you’ll help?”

John hesitated, but then he remembered Charlie's insufferable grin, his constant taunts and teases...John set his shoulders and the twins grinned, already familiar with the stubborn lines of John’s jaw when he’d made up his mind.

“What do you two have in mind?”

\--

John found himself in awe of Fred and George’s handle on spell theory; that, combined with their penchant for mischief and creative thinking, would be the bane (already was the bane) of their teachers' productivity. They really only needed John to cast the spells, directing him on exactly what effect they wanted to achieve and relying on his advanced years of school to fill in a few gaps.

“John we need you to weave it into his hairbrush--”

“--he doesn’t let us near his stuff--”

“With good reason.” John muttered but they talked over him.

“--but you stay over all the time--”

“--he wouldn’t notice you messing with it.”

They had been right.  Charlie never questioned John handling his hairbrush and the effect turned out spectacularly.  Charlie went through exams with sunshine yellow hair that flashed black stripes anytime John stepped close to him, which John made sure to do at every opportunity.  

“This is horrible!” Charlie groaned, running his hands through the bright strands as they ate their last meal of the semester.  John butted against him with his shoulder and smiled brightly. “It looks like a canary had its way with an ink pot!”

“It suits you,” John said as he snagged a bit of potato from Charlie’s plate.

“Of course you think that!” Charlie smacked John’s hand away, but he was grinning.

John went home with the Weasleys that Christmas giving him an excuse to follow Charlie around like a permanent sticking charm tied them together--much to Fred and George’s unending amusement.  A week and the color hadn’t even begun to fade and no amount of tinkering on anyone’s part managed to unwind the spellwork.

“Oh, Charlie, your hair,” Molly moaned, hands reaching out to touch it, lips pulled down in a moue of despair.  She hadn’t been at the platform to greet them this time, letting Arthur (who had been absolutely delighted by the ingenuity of it) pick them up from King's Cross in his beaten-up Ford Anglia.

“Tribute to the losing team,” Charlie replied easily, looking behind him to wink at John and the twins. “Don’t worry, it’s temporary.”

“We think,” the twins sang under their breath and then the lot of them were swept into the Burrow in a whirlwind of hugs and greetings and reprimands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I doubt Arthur would have enchanted the Ford Anglia at this point, but I still wanted it to make an appearance~


	9. Mulled Wine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a direct continuation of chapter seven

Sherlock kept demanding John “do it again,” until the kitchen fluttered alive with lists- _cum_ -origami cranes. Each one came to life less like paper and more like the living creatures John based them on; it made him feel better about his shite transfiguration work.  Sherlock watched them dip and dive around them with unfiltered curiosity and wonderment and John’s heart ached at the sight. It had been months since Sherlock had been anything but meticulous in his expressions--walking a fine line between carefully collected and entirely closed off.

John hadn’t been any better. They’d really had a rough year as far as years go. Not the worst, but certainly closing in on it.

“Is your sister a witch?” Sherlock asked after a moment. John startled out of his reverie and let the spells end on the little birds fluttering about, joining Sherlock at the kitchen table. The birds glided down and down until they came to rest with papery whispers against the table, folds unfurling and tiny feathers merging back into simple unfinished lists and recipes; John watched them, preparing himself for the questions Sherlock must have swirling around his head.  It took him a moment to answer.

“No. Just me.”

“Is that why you two don’t talk much?”

“No--well, not really.  It’s complicated.” John expected Sherlock to pry but he left off to prod at other sore subjects.  There was no doubt in John’s mind that Sherlock would return to it, though.

“What about your mum, your dad?”

“Mum was, but she never told my father,” John said, trying not to wince. The day John had gotten his Hogwarts letter had been the day life at home turned unbearable.   “My father never cared much for either of us after that. Though mum left, so I she never dealt with that.”

Sherlock opened his mouth, then thought better of whatever he wanted to ask. “Is it hereditary?”

“Magic?”  Sherlock nodded and John continued. “Mostly, I suppose. Though I’ve always wondered about muggleborns, sometimes they’ve got an uninterrupted line of non-magical ancestors as far back as records go...though if someone married a squib, maybe then...”

John trailed off, noticing Sherlock’s pursed lips and a little line between his brows, rare but telling signs of confusion; it was only then that John realized how easily he’d slipped back into wizarding rhetoric.

“You probably want definitions.”

“That would be nice.”

“Right, so.”  John brushed a hand through his hair, ruffling the strands into chaos before starting.  “Muggle is our term for someone without magic, so a muggleborn is a witch or wizard born of muggle parents.”

“Does that affect their magic?”

“No, it couldn’t.  Some of the greatest wizards and witches I know are Muggleborns,” John said as he fidgeted with his wand, rolling the wood back and forth across the table.  It felt strange to have it back in his hand, the wood warm and comforting and disconcerting all at once.  He had grown used to the cold of a gun.  Sherlock’s eyes followed the movements of John’s fingers closely.

“What about that other word you said?  A squib.”

“A squib is someone born of magical parents but without any magic themselves.  I think they can see and interact with magic but they can’t produce any--”

“Not quite correct, deary.”

John and Sherlock froze, shock washing cold over John’s shoulders at the unexpected voice. He gripped his wand, meaning to stuff it under the jumper still on the table but Mrs. Hudson just laughed.

“John, you don’t need to hide that from me.” Mrs. Hudson smiled warmly at the two of them as she shuffled into the kitchen, hands gripped firmly around a tray of biscuits and mugs of something steaming and spiced.  Sherlock had his eyes narrowed at her, a small frown curling down his lips.  She ignored him and placed the tray on table between them. “I figured you would need a bit of comfort--didn’t think I would need to disabuse you of prejudice.”

How had neither of them noticed her coming up the stairs? John couldn’t believe the number of times he had been snuck up on in the past week, how his secret had been on display so suddenly and unexpectedly due to a horrid lack of vigilance. John cursed at himself, not really digesting what Mrs. Hudson had said to him; and then he did and her words gained meaning and settled in around him and he sputtered, face going hot. “Prejudice? I don’t--I didn’t--wait are you--”

Mrs. Hudson interrupted him. “That’s alright, love, you don’t know any better.” She patted John on the shoulder good-naturedly and John slunk back into his chair with a groan.  “There’s brandy in that mulled wine. My mother’s special recipe.”

John thankfully took a mug as Sherlock continued to stare and if John didn’t know better he would have assumed he’d slipped into his mind palace, but the way Sherlock’s foot tapped beneath the table dispelled that idea. After John had taken a hearty gulp, stomach warming around the wine pleasantly, he tried questioning Mrs. Hudson again: “Are you--”

“You gave me the letters on purpose,” Sherlock declared, interrupting John again.

“I did.”

“You knew I would open them.”

“You’ve never been good about respecting people’s privacy.”

“You knew about John.”

“I did.”

“You’re a witch.”

“No, I’m not--which brings me back to you, John.”

John smiled weakly at her. He didn’t know how he should react--a small part of him raged at the back of his head, furious that Mrs. Hudson had told his secret without a whisper of permission from John or a hint of intent from herself. The other, bigger part of himself was so drunk from whiskey and mulled wine and so emotionally drained and tangled that he really didn't have the energy to offer up even a token resistance. “Me?”

“Yes, deary, you--you’re horribly lacking in your understanding of squibs. We have magic, you know, at least a few of us do.” She took up the other two mugs of wine and thrust one under Sherlock’s nose, holding the other one in her now free hands. “Your lot never talk about those of us who can still perform specialized charms, it’s rather a shame. We do a lot within the community.”

John shook his head, not really taking it all in. “Still getting over the fact that you’re in the community at all.”

“Is that how all the Christmas decorations go up without our notice?” Sherlock asked and John thought Sherlock was taking this rather well; very calmly for someone who’d lived with logic as his bedmate his whole life. “That’s  _cheating_.”

Mrs. Hudson giggled, Sherlock glared at her as if truly affronted and John swallowed deeply from his cup, wondering how this had become his life.


	10. Warming Up By the Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to apologize, I meant to have so much done BEFORE the holidays were over but to keep a long story short--I spent mine in Alaska and we had the absolute worst connection and the busiest days and then I got caught up in all those flight cancellations, so it took forever to get home. Nevertheless, I am still planning to continue these, so please enjoy a bit of fluff! 
> 
> An almost direct continuation of the last one.

“ _Incendio_!”

The fire roared, flames shifting through shades of green and blue before settling on more mundane reds and yellows and oranges.  Sherlock crept close, hands outstretched to test the heat.  Warmth curled around his fingers, neither hotter nor cooler than a regular fire, but he would need more precise tools to test that later.

In the meantime, Sherlock couldn’t look away from the flames. Their sudden appearance--the sudden flash, crackle and burn of fire--entranced him, pulled him forward.  John standing just behind him, arm extended and fingers wrapped tightly around the scarred wood, kept quiet as Sherlock moved even closer.  They probably looked a sight, both locked in the same position until John relaxed his arm and Sherlock stopped feeling for the heat, skin completely saturated with it.

Sherlock had heard the word before, _incendio_.  He sifted through his mind palace as he lowered himself to the rug directly in front of the hearth, hands coming to a peak beneath his chin.  Definitely derived from the Latin verb _incendere_ , to ignite. Conjugation incorrect.  Identical in pronunciation to the Portuguese _incêndio,_ a large fire. Similar to Spanish _encender_ , French _incendie_ , English _incendiary_. All to do with fire, flame, ignition.  Sherlock shook his head, none of those were the reason the word rang familiar against his skull.

 _...Say_ Incendio _, but that spell's not hot_

_As my special witch's brew!..._

The image of John in the kitchen, cooking and singing, hips moving just slightly even as his spine locked, flooded through Sherlock's brain.  He smiled, blinking slowly as the smell of chocolate and the sound of John’s voice and the feel of a long empty room once again occupied with forgotten tradition slipped into his veins.  He felt heavy with it.  Heady with it.  

(That could have also been Mrs. Hudson's mulled wine, but the pleasantness remained).

“That spell was in the song you were singing the other day,” Sherlock pointed out finally, turning to look at John.  The flames flickered across John’s face, deepening shadows and brightening highlights, but Sherlock was certain the pink flushing John’s cheeks bloomed naturally of alcohol and embarrassment.

“So you heard that.”

“Odd lyrics, those.”  Sherlock turned back to the fire, smile forming into a grin.  John approached, fiddling with his wand in a way that struck Sherlock as reverent, cautious--there were moments when John looked as awed by his own spells as Sherlock did, and then moments where his eyes crinkled and he looked so very sad.

“Yes, well, I like them.”

“Could you cast that spell on that hideous jumper in the kitchen?” Sherlock asked, wrinkling his nose. 

“Absolutely not,” John said, laughing.  He settled next to Sherlock, joining him in warming by the fire.  Outside, the sun had slipped away--the blue of dusk coming to rest on the windowsills as snow began to fall in earnest.  John sat back on his hands, wand balanced across one thigh and Sherlock mimicked the position, fingers spreading out behind him to distribute his weight. They brushed across John’s, fingertips grazing across blunt nails but John didn’t move his hand away so Sherlock didn’t either.  They stayed like that for a long time, lapsing into a comfortable silence; the sky darkened to black and the flat fell into nothing but shadows save for their heated bubble of golden-scarlet light.

For the first time in years Sherlock felt a moment of peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The etymology of incendio comes from the Harry Potter Wikia.


	11. Trimming the Tree

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is one of the sappiest series of ficlets I have ever written and I am not sorry for a second. Still, mentions of suicidal thoughts in this one. This is a direct continuation of the last chapter.

John retired as the fire settled into a subdued smolder--his head swimming and skin wrapped over-tight around budding hysteria. His grip tightened dangerously around the hilt of his wand and for a second he could imagine he was fine, that his fingers didn’t shake.

He fell onto the edge of his bed, body so stiff it hurt, a dull ache along his spine as he hit the mattress. He couldn’t let go of the wand in his fingers, instead laying it across his knees, his hand draped around the wood. It felt warm through his denims, familiar and nostalgic. He brushed a blunt finger over the scars, remembering the battles that carved them, the Battle that separated him from it, from the magic he could now feel rippling through his veins.

The trembling started back in his left hand, juddering up to his elbow, to his shoulder.  He shook hard, the panic back. Disbelief so heavy in his bones he nearly convulsed around it. The wand dropped to the floor and he dropped after it, scrambling to pick it back up, loath to part from it now that he had it back.  

He’d been here earlier in the day, knelt on the floor reaching for his wand in its place beneath the floorboards, but then he still had the words “I can do that,” heavy on his lips and a glass of whiskey in hand because, really, he didn’t think he could.

He’d only touched his wand twice before now, preferring to keep it locked away in its box where he couldn’t see it nestled against the worn velvet like so much useless cedar.  

-

The first time John grabbed for his wand, he had reached for it in blind panic; his arm had healed wrong and infection had slipped between threads of tissue, poisoning the blood. The world spun and his shoulder ached a heavy, heated pain and the wound itself screamed out sharp distress.  It had taken what energy he had to collect his wand from his meager belongings, to keep it hidden until left alone in his room; he had Just wanted to heal himself, make it stop.  Once, in a life long gone, he’d trained at St. Mungos and worked under pressure with the aurors; it should have been doable. Easy even.

The sudden sense-memory of falling back, knocked off his feet by a sickly yellow bolt of light and the smell of ammonia and decay had struck John so suddenly he’d vomited. He’d thought at the time he’d been lucky, that the curse hadn’t affected him, but his spells didn’t take and his flesh didn’t heal.  The smell never left him, had invaded every bit of his being as he tried and tried to purge himself of infection, only giving up when exhaustion forced him to lay back, mouth sour with sick and despair.

He'd lain on that cot out of his mind with fever, _i don’t want to die, i don’t want to die, idontwanttodie_ revolving around his skull, building up into a crescendo until the world went black. And then it started again and his wand did nothing and the infection grew stronger and then suddenly he was home and no longer serving a purpose, invalid and very likely magicless.

He had tried his wand again, a second time, sitting in his tiny bedsit hoping for a mattress that didn't feel like nothing but plywood and goose feather. His arm had ached, his shoulder had flared up and not a thing happened. He tried again, then tried something smaller-- _wingardium leviosa_ then _alohamora_ and so on through the entirety of the first year spell book. Nothing. Panic had risen thick and acrid up the walls of his throat, teeth clenching around it.

Falling back against the bed, he’d dug the heels of his hands into his eyes until he saw stars and the pain in his arm dissipated into nothing but a dull throb. That was the first night the gun in the desk drawer sang to him, siren song lulling him to sleep, a silent promise.

-

With all that in mind, John opened the box, pulling his battled-scarred wand free and whispering a tentative _lumos_.  The tip flickered to life and John felt whole.

-

John snuck back downstairs on shaky legs after he was sure Sherlock had retired himself, feet socked and silent as he crept into their living area. The fire still glowed, a faded circle of light stretching out over the area they had sat in quiet companionship, their fingers folded over each other. John clenched his right hand, rubbing his thumb over the knuckles, chasing the sensation of Sherlock’s warmth. He'd missed those small touches, the little intimacies they had cultivated over the years.  He'd missed them like he missed his magic and wasn't _that_ a thought. 

Outside, snow continued to fall--wet clumps of the stuff that stuck to every available surface like tacky cotton fluff; something from a storybook.  He watched it, back still so stiff he shook, jittery from the escaping panic. A different type of energy crept into him, the kind that stretched his lips out wide and drew a breathless giggle from his lungs as the urge to swing his wand back at the fire became too much and he willed it back to crackling life; and then he cleared the soot and ash out from underneath the flames just because he could.

As the light grew around him in flickering oranges he turned to the walls, flicking his wand back and forth until tinsel and streamers and fairy lights blossomed from the dust, old bits of dead skin transfiguring into garish lengths of colors. He summoned the papers and lists from the kitchen, directing them around the bare tree he and Sherlock had standing to one corner; he created something from a child’s dream, trimming the tree in illogical colors and iridescents until almost nothing of the green remained.

He stood back, taking in his work; it was a hideous display, something reminiscent of his new jumper, all clashing color and bright ribbons and even a bell or five buried in the boughs of the tree. He bit his lip to keep from truly dissolving into giggles. His transfiguration skills really were shite at the best of times, but he couldn’t help delighting in his creations.   _He_ had made this mess, _he_ had made the fire roar and the room sparkle and his magic had worked like it hadn’t in _years_.

“John?”

John startled, the garland and tinsel and lights around him disappearing in thick puffs of dust as he froze in place, suddenly very aware of how he must look. The swirl of colors wrapped around the tree remained, bright and ugly and cheerful even as John wished he could melt through the floor.  Sherlock watched him with narrowed eyes, too alert for him to have fallen asleep like John had hoped he’d done when John came downstairs.  Sherlock had changed into a dressing gown and flannel trousers, but they did little to soften the intensity of his attention.  John smiled at him unsteadily, not sure he minded the sharp regard.

“What are you doing?”  Sherlock asked, gesturing at the tree; his hand cut through the shifting bits of dust that marked John’s failed spells, but John found himself enamored with the way it swirled and eddied around Sherlock’s long, squared fingers and glittered and sparked with the remains of his magic.

“Magic.”  John felt his throat tighten around the word and for one horrifying second he thought he might cry, but the moment passed and he managed to swallow the lump down.  “Decorating.”

“At three in the morning?”  Sherlock stepped forward, eying the remaining trimming wrapped around the tree and fluttering dust with a wrinkled nose. The shine in his eyes betrayed him, curiosity and concern and childish awe all present beneath a veneer of distaste.

“That’s the witching hour, isn’t it?”  John said seriously and then he couldn’t help it, he started laughing, loud peals of delight that sounded dangerously close to hysterics. Sherlock tore his gaze from the tree, wide-eyed as he stared at John and that only made John laugh harder; he must look mad or drunk or maybe even both, but he just couldn’t care.  “Magic, Sherlock!”

And now he certainly sounded insane, brandishing his wand about to punctuate the words.  Little sparks fluttered into the air, gentle yellows and greens that danced up and up and up before spiraling to the floor.  Sherlock reached out a hand to touch one even as he kept his gaze steady on John.  Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but John didn't want to hear whatever deductions or stilted words of concern might fall from his tongue, so instead John grabbed Sherlock's outstretched hand and pulled him close, skin buzzing with gratitude and nervousness and the remnants of whiskey still fuzzing the edges of everything around him.  

"Thank you," John said and when Sherlock tried again to speak John kissed him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And maybe it was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm thinking I'm going to write a longer casefic after I finish these; I want to go deeper into John's magical history while still setting the story in this world I'm weaving around these two and I'm inherently a dark writer, so it would kind of fall in that category too. Anyhoo! About 5-8 more of these left so keep and eye out!


	12. Christmas Party Pt. I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am planning for this prompt to have two more parts--it kind of got away from me.

They had a party to plan.

At least that’s what John said before Sherlock could question him about the night before, his shoulders set and smile plastered bright across his face.

“We agreed to have a few people over, liven up the place, remember?”

Sherlock had scrunched up his nose at John, supremely unimpressed by this fact. He would rather question him about John’s sweating palms and manic magic flinging. The 3 AM kiss tasting of panic and excitement and whiskey-wine sweetness as it buzzed along Sherlock’s lips in shocks of electricity. The one followed by incoherent mumbling and bright red cheeks and a hurried goodnight ( _good morning,_ Sherlock had directed belatedly to John’s back, fingers pressed disbelievingly to his lips).

“We did not.”

John rolled his eyes at Sherlock and set about cleaning the lounge, humming under his breath.  Sherlock frowned at him but when it had no effect on John’s activity he huffed and curled himself up in his chair, watching John work.

It did not take John long to divert his attentions to the kitchen, the stacks of Sherlock’s notes and papers all carefully labeled “under pain of death, do not move these either of you” proving too much hassle for the energy juddering through him. Sherlock watched him go, eyes narrowed as he tried to find any acknowledgement of the night before in John’s shoulders.

Pots and cabinet doors banged about; a moment of quiet and then the click of the hob signaled John to start humming again, odd lyrics breaking through the noise, different from last time:

“You stole my cauldron, my favorite black hat.”

Sherlock groaned and unfolded himself from his seat, bored and jittery--fingers clenching and unclenching and gripping at his dressing gown with the urge to do _something_. He skulked into the kitchen on quiet feet, intending to engage John in actual words strung together to elicit a desired reaction ( _small talk_   his John-voice offered. _Not quite_ he countered), but he stopped short.

John busied himself with hot cocoa, an act so removed but at one time so natural to their kitchen, that it hurt something in Sherlock’s chest. He thought after seeing this once already he’d be immune to the clutching nostalgia drawing old, sun-warm memories from the vaults of his mind palace, but he wasn't. John didn’t notice Sherlock as he continued to hum-sing his way through the motions of mixing and prepping, shoulders tight and voice bright as his smile had been. Sherlock stepped forward as if pulled by a thread that connected and tugged at all the wrong spots, each movement jostling memories and making the night before more and more important. Sherlock stopped directly behind John, invading his space but John didn’t tense. John just continued until he had a mug set aside for Sherlock, cocoa bubbles forming at the top, bursting as he stirred them in. On the stove surface, heat-dried hot chocolate and milk spattered in messy patterns that John set to work on scrubbing clean before he acknowledged Sherlock behind him.

“Sherlock, what are you doing?” John asked, not looking up from wiping up the chocolate from the counter. The full mug, steaming and smelling distinctly of the spilt cocoa and caramel and warm milk, had been placed by a bowl of marshmallows in an obvious attempt to tempt Sherlock. Sherlock had ignored the treat to crowd further into John’s personal space, watching the tendons in John’s hands move as he tried to loosen the sticky brown mess with a linen. John's cheeks slowly suffused with pink the longer Sherlock stood behind him, but he never tried to pull away.

“Helping.”  Sherlock reached around John to pick up an empty tea mug, depositing it in the sink before returning to his place directly in John's personal space.  John breathed out a chuckle and looked up, eyes catching on Sherlock’s lips on their way. Sherlock pursed them a bit to try and bring John’s attention back down, but John resolutely kept eye contact.

“You are not helping.”  

“Can’t you just spell it clean?”  Sherlock asked after a moment and John’s eyes widened, comically so. He dropped the cloth in his hands and grabbed his wand from where he’d stuffed it in his back pocket, thumb rubbing over the wood before he flicked it at the stubborn spot of dried hot chocolate, vanishing it.

“I--”  John looked dangerously close to some strong emotion before his eyes shuttered over it and he laughed, a deprecating, quiet sound.  “Habit, I suppose.  Now how about you take your drink and leave me alone in the kitchen--go organize the desk, we’re going to need it.”

“Those papers are in a particular order and are not to be disturbed.”

“Those are ancient notes that have no business cluttering up our space, you’re just being a lazy arse.”

“I am not.”

“Really? Then prove it--clean something.”  

Sherlock took the drink but instead of cleaning, he retired to his room to ruminate over John’s behavior. That was far more important than disturbing his dust and notes and getting in the way.

He didn’t know when that last thing became something of importance, but he was dissecting John--not himself.

\--

Three days later and Sherlock had to admit the flat looked fantastic.  Once John had set about the task of organizing and decorating with the use of his wand it all went by rather smoothly.  Mrs. Hudson had tweaked it all, soothing down John’s riot of colors into the more traditional Christmas hues.  

Amidst the cheer and unusual cleanliness, the small collection of letters shoved into crevice between the cushion and arm rest of John’s chair stood out as if outlined and highlighted.  Sherlock found himself staring at them obsessively, tilting his head to catch a glimpse of the magical photo from where it stuck out above the envelopes. From his faraway angle he could have sworn he saw a couple of the redheaded men create a sturdy base for a younger, pretty redheaded woman to clamber onto as if she were trying to peek over the letters blocking most of the family from Sherlock's view.  She laughed and waved when she caught Sherlock looking and the temptation proved too much.

“You never read these,” Sherlock said as he stood and grabbed them from John’s chair. He put the photograph on top, still utterly stumped by how they moved and interacted with the real world. Certainly even with magic they would only have a set series of motions they could act out. Instead they all waved at him, faces beaming cheerfully as they jostled about; the pointy blond fellow was the only one who had his face turned entirely away from Sherlock, arms wrapped around his torso.  He seemed uncomfortable amongst the sea of red, even more so than the black headed man and bushy haired woman (they made up the only three with any variation in hair color--oh wait, one of the younger one’s hair just turned blue again).  The pretty girl stayed put on the shoulders of what could only be her brothers.

“I’ve been busy,” John said as he joined Sherlock in the living area, wiping his hands off on a cloth as he approached. His eye stuttered down, hiccuping on Sherlock’s lips again (face warm, whiskey kissed, jolting goodnight) before landing on the envelopes in Sherlock’s hands. “Hand them here?”

Sherlock did so reluctantly, but refused to part with the impossible photo even though none of the people in it meant a thing to him. John shook his head, not even trying to take it from him.

Sherlock kept one eye on the moving figures, half-feigning complete enrapture as he kept his other eye on John; John for his part seemed determine to keep a stiff upper lip but his distress leaked through as he took in the script on each envelope. One in particular kept John’s attention for long moments, his already thin lips pressing into nothing as he ran a thumb over the script.

“I have some Christmas shopping to do.” John announced suddenly. Sherlock raised a brow, questioning John’s odd behavior, but John seemed content to smile briefly and then turn on his heel, pounding his way up the stairs to his room.  He came back down a moment later with a pair of boots suited better to the thick snow outside. “Need anything while I'm out?”

“We’re out of marshmallows.”  Sherlock said it absently, his mind already on the letters most likely abandoned in a shoddy hiding place upstairs. John snorted a quiet-breathy laugh as he pulled on his coat and grabbed a scarf from its hook, one of Sherlock’s.  

“I don’t know how, I bought enough for an army.”

“You would had to have bought significantly more than the paltry three bags--”

“Alright, alright, I get it. More marshmallows.”  Although completely bundled up for the cold outside, John hesitated. He looked torn, words obviously sitting on his tongue waiting to be said, but they weren't. Sherlock thought he had the same words weighing down on him, an electric zing in his lips and fingertips as he thought them, but then John gave a little shake of his head and stomped down the stairs, a loud good-bye bellowed up them before he closed the door behind him.

Sherlock hesitated himself, just for a second, before rushing up the steps to John’s room, curiosity getting the better of him.

 

\--

John hadn’t even bothered to hide the letters, he’d just left them scattered on his bed.

Two of the envelopes were opened, but John had only read one of them in Sherlock's presence, the one with the impossibly messily scrawled message:

_Hey John,_

_How’ve you been?  How’s the muggle world--Arthur says you became...I don’t remember what he called it, but it’s like a muggle battle healer, like what you used to do in the aurors.  I_ knew _you couldn’t just be a muggle healer, that didn’t work last time either.  I haven’t heard from you in so long, I miss your letters.  Molly told me I shouldn’t bother you, but I snuck this letter with her owl anyway._

_Speaking of, Molly won’t admit it for fear of pushing (you know how she is), but she misses you terribly.  We all do.  Do you think maybe you’ll join us for Christmas?  I’d really like it if you did._

_Love,_

_-Teddy._

_P.S. I got Head Boy this year!_

Assuming that battle healer translated to army doctor, Teddy wrote to John with incredibly outdated information.  A minimum of five years would have passed without John writing, more than likely longer.  Sherlock reevaluated the tension that settled over John every winter, able now to dissect layers of guilt from grief.

Teddy didn’t seemed deterred by the length of time between letters, instead Sherlock read him as overly fond of John, very reminiscent of how Sherlock had observed children interacting with a favorite uncle. Head Boy meant he must still attend school.  Sherlock lay the parchment down, picking up the next opened letter, the one that had held the photo.  The handwriting looped and tilted clearly across the parchment, feminine and practical.

_John,_

_How have you been, dear? Have you been eating enough?  It has been so long since we’ve heard from you aside from the cards, it makes me worry._

_I know it’s too much to hope that you will join us at the Burrow this year, but as ever we have a place for you here.  Sometimes it feels so empty, with Fred_ (there was a smudge over the name, like the writer had stuttered and thought better of what she was going to say) _and Bill bouncing about between Egypt and the Delacours and ours for holidays and Charlie ensconced as ever in Romania.  He won’t be visiting this year, too busy with his dragons.  He never did find a nice boy to settle down with after you, I hope you’ve had a better time of it (although between you and me, I think he prefers the company of dragons to people, anyhow).   Arthur asks about you all the time, he wants to know everything about your job and how working with muggles is.  I told him you must be traveling the world--Hermione says when you’re in the army you often don’t stay in one place too long.  It worries me, you in the army, just like it worries me about Harry and Draco with the aurors (I never thought I would say that about a Malfoy!). They stay closer to home, though, and pop in when they can._

_Well, I ought to stop now before I get positively maudlin--we can’t have that on Christmas! Please, at least write us to let us know you’re doing well._

_We love you dear and we wish you a Happy Christmas,_

_-Molly_

And then below in a script that didn’t match the rest of the letter:

_P.S.  If you can, could you send me plugs from your travels? Hermione said something about tours and how sometimes you are sent to different countries, but the specifics keep going over my head.  I love her to death, but she forgets to slow things down for an old man like me. Anyway, I hoped maybe something of a mission might get you to write (and help me further my collection, an all around win!) I did ask Charlie and Bill to send me a few, but I’m afraid they don’t actually know what a plug is and just keep sending bits of muggle items they find at random...certainly fascinating nevertheless!_

_Write soon, dear boy.  We miss you at our table._

_-Arthur_

Sherlock frowned at the postscript, written as it was in jaunty lettering; he could not begin to imagine why this man would be so interested in something as dull as electrical plugs ( _you have an obsession with ash_  the John-voice reminded him crisply).  He imagined Molly and Arthur were the elderly couple in the photograph, parents to the host of redheads and probably something of the same to John at one point in his life.  John had dated Charlie, definitely one of their sons, which would have created an even stronger bond at one point.  That had ended, so maybe John had stopped writing for fear of being rebuffed but that did not gel with the affection present by all three writers towards him--they did not sound like people who would exclude John from their home, in fact they actively seemed to still want him there despite John’s lack of communication and the heartbreak of the breakup ( _assumption, Sherlock_ ).   

(Sherlock intentionally tucked dragons into a far away corner of his mind; _that_ particular reality deserved much more thought than he could give it at the moment, too many deductions already rattling around his skull like an upset hive of bees.)

Sherlock dropped the letter to John’s bed, a small pile of parchment and envelopes forming on the duvet, messier than John had left them. He scooped up the last unopened letter. Despite having already tested his luck opening the letter from Molly several days ago, Sherlock hesitated with this one, rubbing his thumb over the foreign paper in his hand.  John had looked at it with thin lips, his eyes lingering longer on the script on the back than they had on either of the others; he had made no attempt to open it like he had Teddy’s and he probably wouldn’t open it judging by the severity of his frown.  John had left the flat rather quickly after looking at it, distressed.

Sherlock really shouldn’t open it, John would surely lose his temper with him if he did. John valued privacy, evidenced by the fact that Sherlock was just now finding out John not only possessed magic, but that he had a whole other life revolving around it with other people possessing the same abilities.  Even Mrs. Hudson had magic, but at least John hadn’t known that either. 

Curiosity won out.

Sherlock took greater care in lifting the flap and liberating the folded parchment from within--he didn’t want to fool John, per se, but maybe if it didn’t look like Sherlock had torn open the letter hastily and uncaring of John’s property, Sherlock would get a little leniency in the end. And if John didn't realize he'd opened it at all, all the better.

_John,_

_Happy Christmas--or maybe Happy Halloween?  Who knows when you’ll open this._

_I think our silence has gone on long enough, Merlin knows if we left it to pure stubborn will we would never talk again, but I’m not going to let that happen.  I want to apologize, I was wrong.  You weren’t a coward for leaving and I shouldn’t have judged your decision so rashly._

_If you won’t talk to me, that’s fine and I understand, but would you please write mum?  The cards aren’t enough anymore, she really worries about you and I’d hate to think you aren’t writing her because of me._

_Cheers,_

_-Charlie_

Sherlock’s stomach tightened, a fluttering unpleasantness gathering around the lining.  He frowned at the letter accusingly, gripping it tightly enough that the parchment crinkled beneath his fingers.  No amount of smoothing would fix that. Still, he tried, placing it back in its envelope before organizing the lot of them exactly as John had left them on the bed.

Skin tight and warm, Sherlock left John's room, his head filled with new information to digest and parse apart and his stomach full of an emotion he chose not to name.


	13. Christmas Party Pt. II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am still on hiatus, so I apologize for that (I'm moving to another country so things have been, well, incredibly stressful as I prepare for that) but I wanted to give you guys something before I leave. If I'm lucky and manage a bit more I'll even have the third part of this done before I leave in two weeks, but I have to focus on packing and getting rid of basically everything I own...
> 
> So, please enjoy this tiny little interlude in the meantime!

“Jesus, Sherlock, I know you know what privacy is!” John yelled as he stomped down from his room, opened letters clenched in his hand.  He should have known they would have been too tempting for Sherlock, but he’d been so distracted by Charlie’s handwriting he’d forgotten to hide them.  He had just needed out, needed to walk.

“You should go.”  Sherlock didn’t look at John, head tilted away like a dog caught in the rubbish bin.  It would have amused John if he weren’t so _angry_.  Even still, curiosity got the better of him.

“Go where?”

“To Christmas with them, the Weaselys.”  Sherlock finally turned to look at John, sitting up on the couch. Something in his eyes set off warning bells, they were too bright, too excited.  “They obviously care for you and you have no other plans excepts for our _guests_ tonight.“ His tone left no room for his thoughts on that matter.  

“I--“ John looked down at the letters and frowned.  He had no excuse now, he had his magic back, his ticket to the wizarding world. But still...  “I don’t think it’s such a great idea.”

“Why not?”  John’s eyes flickered to the letter, the one with Charlie’s writing on it, before he could stop himself.  Sherlock noticed, keen eyes focusing on John--some of the brightness shuttered away.  

“I haven’t seen them in ages.”

“All the more reason for you to go.”

“Why are you so invested in this?”

“Because you’re taking me with you, of course.”

John blinked, taken aback. "What?"

“I need data--you and Mrs. Hudson are fine as proof that magic exists, but I would benefit from observing it in its natural setting and what better way than with a family that so obviously adores you.” Sherlock explained excitedly.  John, for his part, lost himself in the image of Sherlock at the Burrow, surrounded by Weasleys and magic, demanding answers and explanations of every little thing from Molly’s cleaning charms to the Floo Network. John giggled, forgetting his anger for a moment.

Sherlock stopped talking and scowled, obviously offended.  “You don’t have to laugh, it’s not that ridiculous an idea.  I’m only just learning about the--”

“I’m not laughing _at_ you, Sherlock,” John said, laughing so hard he couldn’t blame Sherlock for the way his expression soured even more; John bit his lip to silence himself before saying.  “I actually think it’s a brilliant idea.”

“You do?”

“Merlin help me, I do.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to say something more but John held up a hand: “However, you have to behave during our own Christmas party.  If you don’t, deal’s off and you’re staying here.” _and I’m not going either_ , he thought but didn’t add as Sherlock frowned deeper, surly in the face of an ultimatum.  His expression quickly cleared, however, and he nodded, shoulders set as best they could be with the way he slouched into the couch.

“Deal.”

It wasn’t until John went into the kitchen for a spot of lunch that he remembered he was still irritated with Sherlock for reading the letters and he stalked right back into the living area, a proper lecture on privacy and respect on his tongue.


	14. Christmas Party Pt. III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am...about as back as I can be! I try to write during my planning periods, so everything has been mostly mapped out and filled in but I'm without a computer so typing things up is slow at best (I've been using my phone). Anyway, we're super close to what everyone seems to be wanting, I promise! The Burrow is, like, this and maybe one mini chapter away from starting and that'll get us through pretty much all the rest of the prompts, I think. Thank you for your patience and enjoy!

_The decorations are quite nice_ , Greg found himself thinking as he sipped eggnog from his glass, standing a bit off to the side from everyone else.  He had already drunk himself into a pleasant haze, having taken John up on a couple of shots of whiskey earlier in the evening before the party had started, desperate to take the edge off of the news that he wouldn’t have his daughters for Christmas.

He’d also need the buffer of alcohol for when Sherlock started in on him.

And speak of the devil. Greg smiled bracingly at the determined look brightening Sherlock’s eyes--the look Greg associated with deductions and outrageous accusations and Greg’s personal life dissected at length. “‘ello, Sherlock, enjoying yourself?”

“You’re a wizard.”  

Greg, who had taken a sip of his drink after speaking, nearly spat it right back out.  “What?”

“You’re a wizard.”  Sherlock said it accusingly--his bottom lip even stuck out slightly as if to pout.  Greg, however, felt his heart race and his skin grow cold with sudden anxiety. He'd never expected to hear those words out of Sherlock's mouth.  Optimistic, admittedly, but he’d been so _careful._  No one should know that, least of all Sherlock who had no frame of reference for such a thing; even his great brain couldn't make a deduction from nothing.

“That’s ridiculous,” Greg laughed after taking a large, stabilizing swallow of eggnog.  “You’ve been drinking, haven’t you?”

Sherlock raised one imperious brow, a patented Garfield-you-are-ridiculous look.  “Of course, what does that have to do with anything?”

“Wizards aren’t real, Sherlock.”

“I saw your wand--nothing like John’s--yours is very well kept, no scarring at all. What is the--“

“Did you just say--“

“That it was well kept?  Yes, I am capable of a compliment--“

“No, about John--“

“Well, you knew, didn’t you?”  Greg just stared at him, eyes wide because no, he _hadn’t_ known.  Sherlock started to fidget, and if Greg knew better he would have said he looked suddenly guilty.  “Oh, you didn’t--I seem to have told a secret that wasn’t mine to--well, never mind.  You are a wizard though.  I am right about that.”

“John’s a wizard?”

“As are you.”  Sherlock had stubbornly dug his teeth into that deduction, probably refusing to let go of it until Greg confirmed.

“But I would know if John was a wizard,” Greg said weakly, staring into the kitchen where John chatted with Molly and Mrs. Hudson, looking entirely muggle.  “They’d have told me.”

“They?” Sherlock asked quickly, crowding into Greg’s personal space in his eagerness to know more.  Greg drank from his glass to keep himself from saying anything but Sherlock pressed. “Who are _they?_   Why would they have told you about John?”

“I can’t tell you that,” Greg groaned, now regretting that he’d allowed himself to get drunk around Sherlock even as he drained the rest of his glass.  “I need another drink.”

Sherlock followed him into the kitchen, probably hoping to witness Greg confronting John, but Greg hadn’t been lying when he said he needed a drink, as inadvisable as that was. Sherlock frowned at him, pursing his lips in disappointment as Greg rinsed out his glass and looked at the line of spirits on the counter.   _A bloody wizard_ , Greg thought, grabbing a tall bottle from the counter.  He didn’t pour it though, instead staring at the the white and gilt of the label. He picked at it, absently dragging his thumb over the edge of paper until it curled free, bits of foil printing rubbing onto his skin.  

There was no way.  No way at all that he had missed that crucial piece of information.  There was no way they wouldn’t have told him he worked in close proximity with another wizard.  Yet Sherlock knew, and the only way Sherlock would not only know, but believe in the possibility was if someone showed him magic.

Greg glanced at John again and then back to the bottle in hand as a clumsy idea struck him.

“Have anything of Ogden’s, John?” Greg asked, watching John carefully as he broke off his conversation to acknowledge the question.

“Oh no, haven’t had a good glass of--” John’s mouth snapped shut with an audible click before he could finish the statement, eyes suddenly wide. A long pause followed, until, noticing that Molly and Mrs. Hudson were now staring at them, John coughed, swallowed thickly and said, words heavy with meaning: “Haven’t had it in ages.”

“Shame.”  Greg poured himself two finger’s worth of Macallan’s into his glass and drank deeply as his heart raced. “Neither have I.”

\--

John cornered Greg by the staircase, hand dangerously tight on his tumbler of whiskey, face impassive.

“Ogden’s?”

“Could go for a good glass of firewhiskey right about now.”

The space by the corner of John's mouth and nose twitched.  “I’m afraid I don’t--”

“Oh, don’t bullshit me, John,” Greg said lightly, pulling up the leg of his trousers to reveal the hilt of his wand and part of its holster.  The impassive expression broke apart as John openly stared before looking quickly behind him at the others in the flat.  Greg followed his gaze and found only Sherlock watching, eyes narrowed. “Sherlock finally figured it out.  I’ve kept that secret from him for bloody years--you too, by the looks of it. But now he’s going to find the lot of us in a week, the clever bastard."

"He noticed your wand, didn't he?" 

Greg nodded. “I don’t know what he thought it was all these years, though.  Had to think I was mighty strange for keeping a well-oiled piece of wood on my ankle.”

"And he, what, told you about me?"

"No...well, yes, but he's been drinking and I think he just assumed I knew already." Greg didn't mean for the last bit to come out accusingly, but the edge was there.  

"No one knew," John offered thinly, growing distant. 

“Compared them, our wands,” Greg said before he could stop himself, snapping John out of whatever dark place he had decided to retreat to.  “Said I took better care of mine and yours is all scarred or something.”

"He didn't."

Greg nodded, hopeful that John would open up again.

“Bet mine’s bigger,” John replied, entirely straight-faced, shocking a laugh out of Greg.

“Mine performs quite well, thank you very much.”  

“If you say so.”  John smirked, amused and warm, much to Greg's relief.

A quiet moment of camaraderie, loaded and full of unanswered questions as it was, stretched out between them as they watched the others, all now migrated to the living room.  Sherlock had not taken his eyes off of them, but his attention wavered as Molly and Mrs. Hudson drew him into conversation.  Mycroft seemed entirely content to speak with his assistant, occasionally glancing over at the two of them.

"How did Sherlock find out?"

John smiled ruefully, equal parts exasperated and fond.  "He got into my mail.  Had a letter from the Weasleys, yearly Christmas picture included, and well, fucker doesn't understand privacy.  I suppose in his defense, though, Mrs. Hudson gave it all to him."

It took Greg a moment to understand, distracted as he was by the casual mention of the Weasleys. John must have participated in the War to know them.  And then it hit Greg and he chuckled, imaging the look on Sherlock's face as he he looked down at a glossy page of moving figures, no pattern or electronics to be discovered. "A wizarding photo may be a bit hard to explain away, that's true."

"And it's Sherlock, even if I thought I could at the time, I wouldn't have been able to _obliviate_ him.  It'd be a crime in and of itself to mess with that great mind of his."

Greg caught the strange phrasing, wondering if John meant it to sound like he couldn't use magic, but then left the thought alone to pursue something else as Mycroft looked back over at them.

“I still don’t know how _I_ didn’t know." Greg muttered, hurriedly continuing on to explain before John could shut down like before.  "The Ministry should have told me, I mean--not that they're a reliable lot at all, but still.  I’m supposed to know all Muggle based wizards in the surrounding area--it’s my job.”

“Your job?”  

“Liaison between the DMLE and the Yard, yeah? New position since the War.  I punt all magical crimes over to that lot in the Ministry when I come across them, to help keep muggle law enforcement from mucking about in completely unknown and unknowable territory. I'm supposed to know of other wizards so that I can do preliminary investigations, let DMLE or the Aurors know who to look for, warn them of threats in the area excetera excetera.  You didn’t think I’d dropped completely out of the magical world, did you? That I’d gone native?”

“That's what I did.”

Greg paused, drank, and knew that he'd been right in his interpretation of John's earlier statement.  “I’m beginning to think this is a conversation for one of our pub nights.”

John nodded and Greg switched gears, determined to stray onto a lighter path.  “Hogwarts?”

“Of course,” John said, smiling gratefully. “Hufflepuff beater.”

“No shit? You must have been my bloody replacement!"

John smacked his free palm against his forehead and laughed. “You're that Lestrade? Fuck me, what a small world. Yeah, I must've been. There was a guy before me--I couldn't play my first year, you know?-- and he was awful. Absolutely horrid.”

“I’m not surprised, didn’t see anyone promising as I was leaving, not that we were any good to begin with.”

“No, and we didn't really get any better during my time there, but I’ll have you know we scraped a few significant wins.”

“Good to hear!”

They kept along the safe topic of quidditch, finding common ground in a sport and a school they never expected to share and Greg was grateful for the chance to forget his holiday angst for a night.  He wanted to dig more, to understand how he never knew about John Watson the wizard, but for the moment discussing plays and creeping closer to the type of drunk that would require him to kip on the couch, he let it be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a lot mentioned in this chapter that will be left unanswered until I write a spin-off one-shot of the pub night, which will probably give more insight into Greg's wizarding history than John's (since John's will get another story even later on, I think), but still cover a lot of both in the end. Yay drunk muggle-passing wizards in a pub!
> 
> Let me know of any typos--I read through a few times, but as I've been on an unfamiliar phone, I keep autocorrecting things and not realizing it...hopefully I've caught the lot of them...


	15. Family Traditions Pt. I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, one more chapter after this before The Burrow which I know a lot of you have been waiting (so very patiently) for. The good news, it's written! I have a lot written now and am just editing for continuity and the like, so keep and eye out in the next couple of weeks!

John sat in the kitchen, mug of chocolate between his hands and anxiety cold across his skin.  He felt sick with it, unable to breath around it.  On the table a sheet of stationary, envelope and pen sat untouched.  It had done so for an hour now, probably would for another.  He debated the merits of Vanishing the lot of it, but that felt too much like giving up.   

The sound of Greg stirring in the living area and Sherlock starting a shower let him know a vaguely reasonable hour of the morning had finally arrived.  John didn’t move.  His chocolate grew cold in his palms.

“You made hot chocolate?”  Greg said around a yawn as he stumbled into the kitchen, bleary-eyed and wincing against the kitchen light. John glanced at the mess around him, cocoa powder shadowing his fingers and clouding the table top, probably sticky around the hob.  He nodded.

“Family tradition,” John said even though it was not his own. He determinedly ignored the glaring, creamy paper spread out in front of him, hoping now that maybe it would Vanish itself.  “There’s coffee, too.  And tea.”

Greg grimaced at him gratefully, staggering further into the kitchen to busy himself with his drink.

“Who are you not writing?”

John stiffened and then sighed, prodding the pen with his forefinger. It rolled a little to the left and then stopped, wobbling. He was exhausted, headache pounding distantly against his temples.  He didn’t want to write it.  He knew he should, he had no more excuses.  

Greg sat down with his coffee and John sighed harder, rubbing at his temples before answering.  “I’m not sure.  I should just get it over with but I--” he ran a hand through his hair and gave Greg what could only be categorized as a manic smile.  “This is all a bit overwhelming, if I’m being honest.”

“Afraid I don’t have a frame of reference.  One second you’re _muggle_ John, next you’re _wizard_ John and somewhere in there is a story that involves war heroes and a consulting detective who will no doubt laugh as he destroys the Statute of Secrecy.  Mind you, that's quite a lot right there, but I gather that's not the problem.”

John snorted. “That’s par for the course, that second half.  The first is a story for another day.”

“What’s so overwhelming, then?”  

“The people I’m writing…” The little smile that had started to curl John’s lips melted away, a hand coming up to rub his shoulder absently.  “I haven’t talked to them in years.”

“That’s not so bad, is it?”

John gave a humorless laugh.  

“Ah,” Greg said before sipping at his coffee.  “Sounds dire.  Why don’t you start the letter by explaining, then?”  

“So I should just say ‘sorry I fucked off all those years ago and never properly responded to your owls, I’d be happy to join you for Christmas dinner.  By the way, I have a muggle friend who wants to come, hope that’s okay’?”

“Sure, why not?” John frowned at him and Greg shrugged.  “I’m guessing there’s a lot more to it than that, so don’t think this is me making light of the situation, but what’ve you got to lose?”

“I’ve done wrong by them.”

“But they still want you to join them for Christmas, yeah?”

“They do,” Sherlock said before John could respond. He leaned against the doorframe to the right of John, a damp towel snaked around his shoulders like a shawl and silk dressing gown draped over ratty pajama bottoms. His hair curled in wild, inky tendrils, free from product and aggravated by humidity.  John took a moment to appreciate the slight flush across Sherlock’s bare chest before turning back to the conversation at hand.

“It doesn’t matter, I fucked up.”

“So unfuck up,” Greg said simply.  He drained the last of his coffee and stood, wincing slightly.  “Worse case scenario, you can’t fix the situation and you move on.   But if you’re still getting invitations to dinner I doubt it can be that bad. At least not nearly as dire as you seem to think”

John nodded slowly, skeptical. He looked back at the paper, putting together sentences and explanations before discarding them in quick succession, as he had been doing most of the morning.  Nothing felt right after so many years of near silence.

“Anyway,”  Greg said as he stretched, spine cracking.  “I need to sleep in my own bed before going into the office this afternoon, so I’ll leave you to it.  Thanks for letting me stay over.”

“We didn’t let you--”

“See you soon, Greg,”  John said, deftly cutting over whatever sarcastic remark Sherlock had sitting on his tongue.  Greg grinned, waved and made his way to the stairs.

There was a moment of quiet and then:

“What’s the Statute of Secrecy?”

“Of course you were eavesdropping.” John said as he dropped his head to the table with a groan. “I see our conversation about valuing privacy _really_ sunk in.”

He heard Greg laugh on the stairs before the door at the bottom opened and closed.  John knew Greg was right.  He had no more excuses, now was the time to unfuck a past of miscommunication, _lack_ of communication and the curse magic that started it all.

And so he wrote, answering Sherlock’s questions between carefully crafted words.


	16. Family Traditions Pt. II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Double update this week! Which means Burrow next week! 
> 
> Once again, if there are awful typos, let me know. I'm mostly working on my phone and autocorrect does funny things...

“It’s a family tradition.”  Fred nodded vigorously alongside his twin, both entirely unafraid in the face of Molly Weasley’s wrath. _True Gryffindors_ , John thought, trying not to laugh lest Molly turn that anger on him.

“It most certainly is not!”

“Sorry, mum, but they’re right,”  Charlie chimed in as he walked up behind John to watch the unraveling scene.  He placed a hand on John’s back and rested his chin on John’s shoulder; John grinned and tilted his head so that his temple pressed against Charlie’s cheek, enjoying the easy affection. Charlie's hair still flashed a weak yellow and black when he stood near John, brightest now that they are in such close proximity. “Bill started it.”

George looked over at them long enough to make a show of gagging before turning solemn eyes on his mother.  In his hands a struggling gnome gnashed its teeth and kicked its stubby legs in a valiant escape effort.  John couldn’t blame it--he’d want to run too if Fred and George had caught and then stuffed him into a dress.  “See, _tradition_.”

“That was _one_ time,” Molly moaned, a thread of defeat beneath her words. The twins grinned at each other, sensing victory in their future.  “That hardly constitutes a tradition.”

“It needs a halo,” John muttered under his breath to Charlie as the twins and Molly continued to argue.  “And wings.  Maybe a pair of golden sandals too, if we’re going truly muggle chic.”

“You can use my dolly’s shoes if you like.”  John nearly jumped, not having heard the youngest Weasley approach.  She smirked at him, child-chubby cheeks nearly ruining the mischievous look.  “Fred and George got Bill to transfigure her dress to fit it.  Her shoes should work too.”

She held up a doll dressed in nothing but practical underthings and struggling nearly as much as the gnome. John laughed, the sight rather absurd.

“Gin, you lovely little imp.”  Charlie pulled away from John so he could ruffle his sister’s hair, making a true mess of it before she managed to duck away, smacking at his hand with the doll.

“Charlie!”  She exclaimed, pouting spectacularly.  Charlie opened his mouth, teases obviously on his lips, but a sudden burst of activity drowned out whatever he had meant to say.

“Bugger!”

“Language, Fred!”

“It bloody bit him!”

“ _George_!”

“Catch it!”

The twins took off ignoring Molly’s squawking about language and gnomes ruining her clean floors.  After a beat in which they glanced at each other, John, Ginny and Charlie pursued; they laughed at Fred as he knocked into a table, upsetting a lamp and at the gnome as it tried to run and tear off the dress at the same time. They circled around the living room and kitchen before the gnome managed freedom, escaping under Arthur’s feet as he came in from the backyard, unaware of the drama unfolding in his home.

“Dad, catch it before it escapes!”

“It took forever to get into that dress!”

“Don’t you dare encourage them, Arthur!” But Arthur had already executed a clumsy turnaround, stepping aside to allow the stampeding Weasley children-plus-John to continue their gnome hunt.  He hesitated at the door and then joined them (“Molly, it’s my fault it escaped, I should help.”).

The air bit at John’s throat, cold and crisp and promising another snow before the night was out; his feet slipped and slid beneath him in the slush and a painful chill soaked into his shoes, up his ankles into his calves.  It hurt to run, it hurt to breath, but John laughed freely and loudly, too delighted to give the discomfort more than a passing thought.

It took twenty minutes to catch the gnome again.

“John, grab him!”  John dived, foot sliding out from beneath him to send him tumbling heavily on top of the ugly creature. The air knocked out up him, stunning him briefly, but Charlie swooped in, tugging the equally stunned gnome out from beneath him to hand to George.

“That was brilliant!”  Ginny crowed, attempting to help John up from the ground. She still held her doll in one hand, its hair now a matted mess and frame shaking from the cold.  John felt for it, soaked to the skin as he was in melted snow.  John took Ginny’s free hand and promptly fell back on his arse when she couldn’t support his weight.

“Let me, Gin,” Arthur said, taking over to haul John up. “You alright, my boy?”

“Never better,” John wheezed, and he meant it.  Freezing, bruised and winded, John couldn’t think of another way he’d rather spend Christmas Eve.

When John followed Arthur inside, he found the gnome already stunned and rotating slowly atop the tree; its dress hung bedraggled and torn on its shoulders, but the halo over its head and shoes on its feet gleamed like dragon’s gold; a pair of fluffy wings completed the set. Bill and Charlie stood watching their handy work, George and Fred pleading with Molly to allow them to keep it there for longer than an hour. Ron must have wandered down from his nap during the action for now he stood glaring up at gnome, face torn between amusement and disgust.

“John, you were right, it needed the halo.”  Charlie said.

“And the wings,” Bill added.  

“And the shoes,” John started to walk over to them.  “That is the ugliest angel I have ever had the displeasure of seeing. I love it”

“John, you’re soaked!” Molly had abandoned her haggling with the twins at the sight of John, motherly concern outweighing motherly irritation. John stopped, midstep, still mostly by the back door.  “You’ll catch cold, come here.  That’s right, by the fire with you.  I have my drinking chocolate warming in the kitchen, here, let me--”  She cast a drying charm on him, his clothes steaming as they heated against his skin.  “Go on, sit.”

And John sat by the hearth, soaking up the heat of the fire as his chase in the snow caught him up in a wave of exhaustion.  It lulled him into a doze; contentment heavy on his lids as the smell of melted chocolate filtered into the living area.  Charlie joined him and for a moment, they sat side by side in silence.

“I could get used to this,” John said quietly and then flushed, embarrassed by what he had just admitted.

“Me too,” Charlie said easily, bumping his shoulder against John’s.

And in that moment all seemed right in the world.

\--

John remembered the warmth of that fire as he sent off his letter to the Weasleys. He had very few places he had ever truthfully called home--he could even count them on one hand: Hogwarts, The Burrow, and 221B.  He’d lost Hogwarts when he graduated, when he fought a war in her halls and left ghosts behind him; he lost The Burrow when he left the wizarding world to pursue a new life path and ended up fighting an entirely different war; finally, he lost 221B as a pawn in a war between two great minds and then with a ring on his finger.

But they were still home to him and even if Hogwarts would remain so as a memory only, 221B had started feeling warm in all the right corners again.  Maybe The Burrow could too.


	17. Christmas Without You Pt. I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And here is The Burrow, as promised!

“This house is not possible.” Sherlock had trouble wrapping his head around the structure in front of him; by no logical means it towered above them, certainly at risk of crumbling to the ground with the barest shake of the earth or lightest breath of wind. “It can _not_ be stable.”   

“Magic, Sherlock.” John laughed, pitch rising slightly at the end.  Sherlock glanced sideways at him and found John held his back straight, spine stiff, face barely crinkled but for briefly by the the laugh he had just given--forcibly impassive. He had his wand gripped at his side, fingers tightening and loosening almost imperceptibly. He was nervous.  Beyond nervous.  Sherlock looked back at the house, squinting at the way it sprawled into the sky, rooms sprouting out from it as if a child had glued them there, no respect for physics.  

He voiced his concern.

“Magic.”  John said again and grinned at him, tight lipped and posture impossibly more rigid than before.  They were at the door, John’s fingers twitching as he fought both the urge to knock and do nothing.  And then the door burst open, deciding for him and bringing with it the smell of fresh baked Christmas and the sounds of too many happy people in too small a space.  A pleasantly plump woman with greying red hair swept John up into such a tight hug Sherlock had to step back to avoid being hit by John’s feet leaving the ground.  

“Molly, I can’t breathe!” John wheezed, coughing as her arms squeezed even tighter. Sherlock realized he might have to rescue John--asphyxiation seemed a real threat as seconds ticked by and Molly continued to constrict her arms around John.

“John Watson, you will let me hug you properly,” She said into his shoulder, voice muffled by his coat. It sounded thick, maybe even tear-clogged, but as she pulled back her eyes flashed fierce and bright.  Behind her, the door closed, cutting off the sounds from inside.  “I have half a mind to start shouting--hardly a letter, never a visit.  There were times I thought you were dead. _Dead,_ John!  You going back to war, and a muggle one at that! And then two years of complete silence.  Nothing at all!”

She didn’t let go of John as she said this, fingers clamped tightly around his arms as if afraid John might disappear the second she did.  John flinched, but his eyes never wavered from her face; he said not a word to defend himself but Sherlock could see the guilt growing cloudy in his blue eyes, turning them nearly slate.  Molly saw it too and her face softened as she pulled him back into an embrace, far gentler than the last.  “I was so worried.  I thought everything was fine while you were in that muggle school but then...”

“I’m sorry, Molly.” John wrapped his own arms around her and they stood like that for a moment, holding each other tightly.  Sherlock shifted, uncomfortably aware that he was intruding on something he had no part to play in, no history to contextualize with.

“You had better be,” she sniffed, holding John back out at arm’s length. “I had just about resigned myself to Christmases without you at our table.  I’m glad I don’t have to.”

Sherlock shifted and the movement must have grabbed Molly’s attention for she glanced over John’s shoulder at him. Finally letting go of John and smiling widely, she stuck out her hand to Sherlock in greeting.  “Oh, you must be Sherlock.  I’m Molly Weasley, dear, pleased to meet you.”  He took her hand, intending to shake it but she used the leverage to tug him into a hug half as tight as the one she had just subjected John too.  It was still enough to peel his heels from the ground despite his superior height. If he could breath he would have appreciated the hidden strength in the weight of her arms.

“The pleasure is all mine,” he coughed as she let go.  John’s laugh still rang high and tight, but he was obviously pleased beneath the anxiety.  Sherlock caught sight of three redheads pressed together at the window by the door, their eyes wide.  Molly started talking and Sherlock turned back to face her fully.

“John mentioned he’d be bringing you.  I dare say this must all be quite a shock.  We’ve never had a muggle over before,” Molly said before laughing. “Although not for lack of trying, mind you.  Arthur is just delighted.”

Sherlock looked back at the window and found it emptied of faces, which only meant--

The door burst open a second time and out spilled a cacophony of noise and people.

“John, you bastard!” Bellowed the first person, a stocky, one-eared man in flamboyantly purple robes.  “I don’t know whether to hex you or kiss you, but I’m rather tempted to do both!”

“George!” A good deal of the tension drained from John as he broke into the first genuine grin Sherlock had seen him wear in awhile. George maneuvered Molly out of the way to embrace John, clapping him hard on the back. John laughed and returned the gesture, saying: “I’ll pass on both, if it’s all the same to you.”

“Smart man.”

“It’s so good to finally see you again, my boy!” A balding man, obviously the Weasley patriarch, Arthur, approached with a bit more calm, taking John’s hand when it was offered.  “It’s been too long.”

“It has.”

“Welcome home.”

John’s eyes sparkled for a bit before he averted his gaze, effectively hiding whatever emotion Arthur’s words had stirred before either Sherlock or Arthur could discern it.  Arthur clasped John’s arm all the same, squeezing once before turning on Sherlock, eyes twinkling and calm quickly dissipating in the wake of unholy excitement.  “And you must be Sherlock! Oh, I am delighted to meet you!  Come in, come in.”

Sherlock found himself propelled forward into the house as the third boy, willowy and young, approached John, tentatively eager.  His hair, previously a Weasley-red flashed to a familiar, magnificent blue.  

“Wotcher, John.”

“Teddy, look how much you’ve grown.” John’s voice hung low, weighed down by more emotion Sherlock couldn’t quite grasp as he was herded forward.

“I didn’t think I’d see you again.”

“I’m sorry, I--”  The door shut behind Sherlock just as Teddy hurled himself at John, almost matching Molly with the force of his hug.

“--I am hoping that we will be able to trade information, I have so many questions about your profession.  A detective, John wrote, and you certainly must have a few about magic.  John ought to be tied up for a bit, so--”  Sherlock realized Arthur had been talking to him,  and he tuned back in to catch the meat of what promised to be a mutually beneficial conversation.

“Consulting detective,” Sherlock corrected following Arthur into the kitchen. He smiled.  “And I would be delighted to trade with you.”

Arthur beamed at him.  “Splendid.”


	18. Christmas Without You Pt. II

“Molly, who did Arthur just drag away to the kitchen?”  John stepped over the threshold behind Molly, craning to see who had spoken.  Harry Potter sat on the couch closest to the doorway, squeezed between Ginny Weasley and a pointed, pale faced man John assumed to be Draco Malfoy.  Harry gestured over his shoulder at the open kitchen where Sherlock and Arthur had their heads bent together, speaking quickly.  “Is it the Muggle? Does that mean--John!”

Harry stood, jostling both people beside him.  Ginny stood a second later, followed a bit reluctantly by Draco.  Harry had filled out since the last time John had seen him in person--more years had passed in Christmas cards and wizarding photos than existed in the span of their acquaintanceship, but the years had certainly been kind to him. Despite only a handful of months of friendship between them, Harry smiled at him with warmth in his impossibly green eyes, and offered him a hand as he approached.  “We thought we’d seen the last of you, I’m glad that’s not the case.”

“Harry, you look well,” John said, clasping his extended hand.  Harry had a firm grip and John matched it, feeling an unconscious crackle of magic between their palms, suddenly awed by the power it betrayed. 

“Dad stole your friend, I hope you weren’t terribly attached to him,”  Ginny interjected before Harry could respond.  Her voice dipped somewhat disapprovingly, somewhat sly on the word friend before tripping back to casual.

“I would like him back when we return home, if that’s what you mean,” he said, raising an eyebrow at her.  She had been the most devastated by his and Charlie’s breakup and as such would be the one to still hold significant ill will towards John, but then she smiled, bright and dazzling and threw out her arms in invitation.  Relief, sickening in its intensity, flooded through him and he hugged her.

“You were gone so long, we missed you.”

“I know, I’m sorry.”  John wished he could say the words a million times over and fix some of the damage he had caused, but he could hardly convince himself that was more than a fool's desire.  Yet, the warmth with which each member of the family greeted him left him with the hope that not all was lost.  He pulled back and they shared a grin.

“John,” Harry said to grab his attention.  Harry gestured at Draco beside him, his smile fond and, John realized with a little jolt, loving as he glanced up at Draco. Draco didn't look nearly as uncomfortable now as he had in the Christmas photo, tall and thin and impeccably dressed.  “This is Draco Malfoy, my--” Harry looked up at the ceiling and waved a hand in a dramatic pantomime of searching out a word. “--spoiled, pureblood prince.”

Both of John’s eyebrows shot up, but Draco gave an indelicate snort completely at odds with his aristocratic bearing and elbowed Harry in the ribs.  The way Harry laughed and rubbed along the bruised flesh and the way Draco smirked, marked this as a small part of a larger inside joke ongoing between the two of them.  “Don’t mind my brutish, unsophisticated--”

“Don’t forget oafish, you’re quite fond of the word oafish,”  Ginny interjected and Draco nodded at her in acknowledgement.  Harry squawked indignantly, startling a laugh out of John.

“--oaffish fiancee.  It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, John.  I’ve heard quite a bit about you today.”

John shook the offered hand, setting aside any preconceived notion he held of the Malfoy’s in general and Draco specifically.  He couldn’t be anything less than reformed if he stood welcomed in the Weasley household, and besides which, Molly had mentioned her care for him in the last letter.  “The pleasure is mine.”

“Harry, have you heard from Ron and Hermione?” Molly, who had disappeared as soon as the front door had closed behind Teddy, walked back over from the kitchen. Behind her several mugs of something steaming followed behind her in a neat, gently bobbing line.  Teddy and George grabbed one each, before returning to their spots in the cluster of people they created at the door. “They’re not usually late.”

The smell of chocolate thick and warm traveled under John’s nose and he stiffened, the throb of nostalgia so strong it held him like a physical weight.  The conversation faded around him, blurry and indistinct as if someone had cast _muffliato,_ leaving him with a ringing in his ears and fuzz in his head.

Not even half an hour in the presence of the Weasleys and he had experienced nothing short of a panoply of emotion, his chest crowded with the overwhelming variety.  He took a breath, attempting to steady himself.  Took another and another until the word crisped back into intelligibility.  

A mug floated just under his nose; it took him a moment to see the others had sat down.  All except for Molly.  Concerned glances flickered his direction as they conversed, but Molly blocked most of them with her back, watching him intently.  He realized the mug didn’t float, but sat in her palms as she held it out to him, eyes sad and knowing. He took it and looked away.

“John,” she said gently.  “It’s okay, you’re home.”

The words broke something open inside John, something unnameable. He dropped his head as the tears began to roll, burning and silent down his cheeks.  Molly placed one hand on his shoulder, and then the other, squeezing and rubbing her thumbs in comforting circles over his jumper.

And John let himself cry for the first time in years.


	19. Christmas Without You Pt. III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ANGST WARNING, so bear with me...theoretically you can skip this chapter and it won't hurt your understanding of the story as a whole, but it does give insight.
> 
> Though if you're familiar with my other stories, I've had some serious self-restraint this go around!

_Christmas Eve 2012_

“To another Christmas without you.”  John slurred, tipping a sizable amount of gin onto Sherlock’s grave.  “You bastard.”

John had a letter in his pocket.  He didn’t open it this year, he couldn’t bear the thought of the cheerful photograph he knew he’d find, the well wishes and implorations that carried guilt heavy into John’s heart.  He had enough guilt crowded there already. So instead he lowered himself to the ground and leaned against the cool marble of the headstone now at his back and he talked.  

“I don’t understand,” he started, stumbling over the words.  “I still don’t see why.  You didn’t seem like--I didn’t notice--”

John swallowed, tried a different track.  “I could have saved you, if...if I weren’t so broken.  I could have stopped your fall, I could have--I’m rambling though.  This would make no sense to you.

“‘Break my fall, John, that’s absurd.  Use your head,’ you’d probably say.  I know exactly how you’d frown at me too, but it’s true.  I could’ve done it.”

John rubbed at his shoulder, feeling a familiar ache there; he swallowed a mouthful from the whiskey bottle in hand. Night had fallen hours ago, grown old before John had even left his flat for the graveyard and now it felt like a curtain around him and the rest of the world, freeing him to say what he’d always wanted to say.  Or it could have been the whiskey loosening his tongue.  Whatever it was, John continued.  “I have a secret.  You never figured it out. I actually managed to keep something from you, but that doesn’t matter now.  I couldn’t prove it anyway, that’s probably why you never guessed...sorry, _deduced_.

“You see, I’m a wizard--don’t laugh, it’s true! I am...was a damn good one too. I studied at a school and fought in a war you’ve never even heard of.  But I lost my magic a long time ago, can’t even produce a basic _lumos_ or levitation charm.  It’s pathetic--if I still had it I would have been able to--”

John gripped at his hair with his free hand, tugging painfully at the strands as he fought down the sudden prickling, choking wave of grief that clawed up his throat.  His voice roughened, and when he spoke again it sounded like he spit out stones and tar instead of words.  “It’s all I can think about.  I could have saved you, I could have done something, but I’m useless. I should have seen it coming, I should have paid more attention I should have--”

John pulled his knees up to his chest and dropped his head into the valley they created.   He sobbed, gagging on the force of it, helpless and drunk and grief addled.  The bottle dropped from his hands as he hugged both arms around his legs, squeezing tightly, fearing he would fall apart if he loosened them just the smallest bit.

“I-I’m sorry I c-couldn’t save you. I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

Somewhere a bell tolled and the night gave up the hour to Christmas.


	20. Mistletoe Pt. I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Friday! I'm going to try and update every Monday and Friday until I finish now that I have a sufficient backlog of written chapters, though I can't promise I won't screw that up because of the time difference haha. Here's something nice to follow the angst of the last chapter~

“You cannot create something from nothing,” Sherlock stated, frustrated and bullheaded even as Arthur conjured a chair before him. The second one he’d made from seemingly thin air.  “Magic can’t completely disregard science, there has to be a line.”

Arthur sat down in his chair, proving it to be quite sturdy.  Sherlock sat more tentatively in his but the wood did not give way beneath his weight.  “I didn’t create it from nothing, I used a couple stones for these.”  He waved a hand to encompass their chairs.

“There is not enough mass in a couple of stones to make chairs this solid.”  He thumped his knuckles against the wood.  

Arthur scratched his head.  “We’re getting into magical theory territory.  I don’t think I’m equipped to explain that to you.” 

Sherlock’s mouth soured and Arthur laughed.  “Oh no, just because _I’m_ not able to explain it doesn’t mean someone else can’t.  I happen to know quite the brilliant witch--”

“Will she be here tonight?”  Sherlock interrupted, leaning forward.  Arthur grinned at him.

“You’re in luck, she is.  Why don’t we join them inside?”  

Sherlock nodded, eager to get to the meat of the machinations behind magic.  Arthur would be perfect for experiments, and mixing their muggle and magical ideas together promised something spectacular, if not destructive and--

Sherlock stopped dead on the threshold, completely unprepared for the sight that greeted him.  In the hour that he and Arthur had spoken out on the lawn, the interior of the Burrow had completely transformed.  Food covered every surface of the kitchen, mistletoe hung in bunches from the ceiling so thick there was absolutely no way to avoid stepping underneath it and--Sherlock watched a bunch thicken and multiply, thoughts again derailed.

And those were the relatively normal changes.  Sherlock hadn’t taken long to evaluate the house before he and Arthur had started their conversation, but he was certain he would have noticed that the strands of faerie lights actually consisted of brightly glowing tiny, winged women and men instead of electric glass bulbs; they flitted from place to place creating the illusion of changing colors strands. And then, at the source of an argument Sherlock hadn’t quite tuned into in his shock, was the ugliest creature Sherlock had ever scene.

“Oh dear,” Arthur muttered under his breath, voice equal parts exasperated, resigned and amused.  “This has Ginny and George written all over it.”

“This is not a family tradition!”  Molly exclaimed, throwing her hands up in the air in frustration.  “I swear every year you do this and--”

“That would make it a family tradition, mum,” the pretty Weasley girl--Ginny--stated calmly, but as Sherlock and Arthur drew closer, he could see sharp mischief in her eyes. "The argument included."

“I swear between you and George it’s as if--” Molly stopped and the atmosphere changed dramatically, a sudden heavy melancholy that weighed on nearly everyone in the room.  Sherlock quickly sought out John and was surprised to see the marks of shed tears in the red rimming of his eyes, the puffiness of his lids.  And then Molly took a fortifying, shuddering breath and continued. “And this mistletoe, is this one of yours George?  It’s monstrous!”

George grinned, the expression goading if not a bit stiff.  “Who, me?  Of course not.”

Sherlock, watched whatever cloud had settled over the family start to pass and felt safe in asking: “What the bloody hell is that?”  
  
Everyone’s attention snapped to Sherlock and Arthur, having missed their entrance.  Sherlock noticed two new arrivals and hoped that the bushy-haired woman was the witch Arthur had mentioned. John gave him a little half-smile before following the path of Sherlock’s pointing finger; the others did as well and laughter rippled over the seated and standing guests alike.  
  
“That,” George said magnanimously, puffing out his chest as he gestured up at the gnarled, sparkling creature rotating around the top of the tree. “is family tradition!”

John gave George an exasperated look.  “It’s a gnome, Sherlock.”  Sherlock opened his mouth to protest its existence, more on principle than actual firm belief but John continued.  “It’s a common magical pest usually found in gardens.”

There was a pause and then John grinned at George. “And it does a very fine job of spicing up a Christmas tree.”

“Family tradition!” Ginny shouted victoriously.

“You’ll be the death of me, you lot!”

“We’re replacing one of the angels at the Manor with one of those,” the blonde Sherlock remembered from the wizarding photo but didn’t have a name for, said with a manic grin.  His companion snorted, coughing on the drink he had just been trying to take a sip from.  The blonde smirked, smug.

John motioned him over and Sherlock weaved around couches and outstretched legs to join him near the fire.  “How are you doing?”

“This is all very fascinating,” he admitted.  “Though I seem to have exhausted Arthur of his magical knowledge.”

“Already?”

“He said there was a witch here that--”

“That would be Hermione,” John said nodding.  “I’ll have to introduce you.  Have you met everyone, yet?”

Sherlock shook his head.

“Oi!”  John shouted over the argument, waving his arm to catch the attention of the room. “Face me so I can introduce you to Sherlock.”

And in a litany, pointing at more redheads than not and even to those Sherlock had already met: “Arthur, Molly, Draco, Ginny, Harry, Teddy, Ron, Hermione and George.  Everyone, this is Sherlock.”

After a roar of greeting the bushy haired woman, Hermione, pulled herself away from Ron and Arthur and walked over to them, a glint of something sharp and bright in her eye.  “Arthur said you were interested in magical theory?”

“Yes, he wasn’t able to articulate how he transfigured a chair from a stone--the lack of proper mass for such a transformation alone is troubling.”

Hermione clapped her hands together delightedly and the sharp and bright thing translated to intelligence. “I know just where to start.  I assume you aren’t familiar with the five Principal Exceptions to Gamp’s Law of Elemental Transfiguration?”

“I can't say I even know what Gamp’s Law is.”

If anything she grew more excited at his lack of prior knowledge, her smile growing almost manic before she took a deep breath.  “Wonderful, no one _ever_ wants to talk magical theory with me. I’ll give you a primer before dinner--there’s too much for tonight but I assume you have mobile phone? Email?  Oh, good. Well Gamp’s Law states--”

And she went on, talking quickly and pulling out her wand to demonstrate the basics as she tore through them.  Sherlock asked questions between her every breath and between the two of them they drove the rest of the household to the kitchen and yard where alcohol and talk of quidditch could flourish.

A top the tree, the gnome continued to rotate, face pulled down in a rictus, pink skirt fluttering in the breeze.


	21. Mistletoe Pt. II

“I’m never getting my wife back,” Ron groaned, leaning back in his chair with both hands over his slightly bulging stomach.  John laughed.

“I understand, I’m never getting my friend back.”  

Ron gave a long suffering sign before looking John up and down.  He squinted his eyes in dramatic fashion and then nodded as if he deciding something.  “I suppose I’ll have to take you home, then--Merlin knows I’ll need help with Hugo and Rose once Jean and Tyrell drop them off.  They never sleep the night before Christmas.”

“I’m afraid I have to refuse, I've not got a good track record with children,”  John said with mock joviality.  "Plus I'm not nearly as attractive as your wife, it'd be a poor swap."

"Fair enough," Ron laughed and shrugged, tipping his chair further back; John leaned forward to grab his glass of firewhiskey.  Dinner had been an extravagant affair as it only could be with Molly Weasley at the head of preparation.  John hadn’t eaten so much food in one sitting in ages and now he was certain he’d never move again.

Sherlock and Hermione, separated during the meal for everyone’s sanity, had gravitated back together after dessert, speaking quickly and fervently on topics John had no desire to become privy to. He sipped at his whiskey, let the heat pool in his stomach, and then stood, gathering dishes as the others engaged in lazy conversation.

Halfway to having his hands full, George stopped him.  “Why don’t you just levitate them?”

“I--” John nearly dropped the plates stacked in his hands and his face flushed, looking to see if anyone had noticed; no one had. George raised both brows, obviously alarmed by John’s reaction.  

"Godrick's bollocks, John," George said as he flicked his wand wordlessly at the plates, lifting them out of John’s arms.  "You okay?"

"Fine, fine." Hands now free, John grabbed his wand and did the same to the rest of the empty dishes scattered across the table.  Seeing John cast magic drove some of the sudden tension out of George’s expression but he still indicated John follow him inside.

“Thank you, boys!” Molly called out, relief and alcohol warming her voice. “We’ll be in soon for Celestina’s special.”

“Oh joy,” George muttered before ushering John the rest of the way into the kitchen and closing the door behind him. The dishes clattered about at shoulder level, jostled by John and George’s shuffling movements and George set them to washing themselves in the sink before turning his attention back to John.  “What the hell was that?”

“Nothing.”

“Nope, you froze, completely panicked," George insisted.  “I would have thought you couldn’t do magic if you didn’t just cast in front of me, that’s how rattled you looked.”

How could he explain to a wizard that he'd forgotten he could do magic without giving the reason behind it?John wrinkled his nose, wishing for his whiskey.  As if hearing John’s silent thoughts, George summoned a bottle of Ogden’s from a high up shelf and didn’t even bother with glasses as he cracked open the top and handed it over to John.  John took it, swallowed from it and then refused to let it go, hand tight around the base as he said again.  “It was nothing.”

“Bullshit.”  George snapped.  John startled and George took a breath, rubbing a hand over his face.  “Sorry, that was shitty. I just--"

He held his hand out for the bottle and John obliged, already certain he knew where this conversation was headed and wishing fervently it wouldn't.

"You know I’m glad to see you and happy to have you back around, right?  Merlin, I haven’t seen Mum this relaxed in _ages_.  Christmas is always hard for us, especially her, but I mean, look at her.”  John followed George's hand to where Molly leaned heavily against Arthur, face whiskey-warm and content. He didn't turn away from the window as George continued to speak. "But you left and that was fine, I guess. I wouldn’t expect you around for awhile after you and Charlie, you know...”

“Had an argument ‘so loud you probably woke bloody Merlin from his nap in the Crystal Caves’?” John asked, quoting George’s words back at him.  George laughed, obviously surprised John remembered.

“Exactly.”  The humor left his voice again.  “Well, after that I didn’t expect to see you, didn’t even expect the letters but you were good about writing back when mum owled and you always sent a Christmas card.  Do you remember, you even visited a couple of times during the holidays when Charlie wasn’t here, would floo right through?”

John remembered.  That had been during medical school, after he'd enlisted but before he'd been deployed.  He’d loved those days, watching Teddy totter about and drinking with whichever Weasley or adopted Weasley happened to be around;  usually Harry or George or Ginny.  He had never come for Christmas, though, never wanted to intrude (if he was being truly honest with himself, never wanted to run the risk of seeing Charlie.  But when did John ever want to be honest with himself?)

“So what happened, John?  Where’d you go?” George watched him expectantly, voice low, the gentle clattering sounds of dishes drying nearly drowning him out.  John let a silence thread out between them as he fought for what to say.  

“I--”  The door to the kitchen opened and the entirety of the revelers from outside flooded in, bringing chill and the scent of snow on their robe tails.

“Thank you so much for doing the washing up, boys,” Molly said, patting both John and George on the cheeks fondly, oblivious to the tension.  “Celestina’s Christmas Eve special starts soon.  You’ll stay for that, won’t you John?”

“Of course, Molly.”  She beamed and bustled past. John noticed that Ron still hadn’t managed to pry his wife away from Sherlock, his eyes flickering up nervously at the mistletoe every now and then as they walked into the living room.  As everyone grabbed seats, a gentle susurrus of conversation ebbed and flowed into the kitchen, silenced as Molly turned on the wireless.  George watched John intently, the questions still hanging in the air between them.  John felt sick, unwilling to part with that information while everyone else seemed so content but knowing he owed more than George an explanation.

“I’ll tell you, I promise, but not tonight.  It’s not a story meant for Christmas Eve.”

George narrowed his eyes at John and then gave a sharp nod.  John sagged with relief, eyes closing briefly as he brought up a hand to rub over his forehead.  When he opened them again, George was a hairsbreadth away from John’s face and his own eyes sparkled with mischief, never a good sign. John didn't even have a second to startle back before George kissed John--a loud, smacking whopper of a kiss that left John rigid and almost speechless. Almost.

“ _What the bloody hell_?”

George pointed up to the creeping mistletoe covering ever inch of the ceiling.  He schooled his features flat and emotionless for all of five second before he started cackling, bent double as he howled with laughter. John swatted at him and George ran, taking cover in the living room just as Celestina’s voice flowed from the speakers.

Molly was not pleased.


	22. Christmas Music/Specials

Sherlock reluctantly returned Hermione to her husband when the music started.  He would have preferred their conversation, but he thought that Molly might actually castrate him if he continued speaking over her precious Celestina Warbeck (the look she had shot John and George as they rushed into the living room had been murderous).  

_You claimed that you loved me_

John sat  down next to Sherlock, barely squeezing into the space between Sherlock and the arm of the couch.  John had a bottle of whiskey in his hand, and smelled of it lightly as he adjusted his position, thigh pressing warmly against Sherlock’s.  As he crossed his arms, John seemed surprised to have the bottle and looked around for a place on the floor to set it, jostling Sherlock as he moved again.  When John settled back against the couch, his fingers picked at his jumper and he looked down at his lap, not at all listening, eyes distant.

_Said we'd never part_

“John, are you alright?”  Sherlock whispered, glancing over at Molly nervously but she didn’t seem to notice.  Vaguely he recognized the music hardly sounded Christmas-y at all, and the melodies were largely unfamiliar except for a strain or two that he couldn’t quite place.  John opened his mouth, then bit his lip before looking at Sherlock.  

_Then you stole my cauldron_

“I...think so,” John said it slowly as if he couldn’t believe the words himself.  “I guess I should thank you for dragging me--” He didn’t finish.  

_But you can't have my heart_

There was a sudden _whoosh_ and then the fire flared green, a bright tower of emerald that swirled around the shadow of a human form. It settled as a stocky man stepped out, Weasley-red and grinning sheepishly even as he bent to dust his hands across his legs. “I'm so sorry to drop in in the middle of Celestina but the first international portkey I could grab malfunctioned, and you know how awful holiday travel--” he looked up from brushing soot from the knees of his trousers, realizing the room was silent.

_Yes, you stole my cauldron_

“Charlie!”  Molly recovered first and flung herself away from the wireless, unsteadily rushing to her feet before throwing her arms around the new addition. Charlie smiled brightly at her, returning the hug with as much force as his mother pressed against him.  Uncertain looks skirted John’s way, most hidden in the sudden uproar of greetings and motion but Sherlock didn’t miss them.  He watched the room carefully, registered the tension beside him as John tried to hide in the couch.  Sherlock found his attention split between John and the new addition, almost unsure of what to make of either.

_But you can't have —_

Charlie was the opposite of Sherlock every way: bright hair where Sherlock’s fell dark, dark eyes where Sherlock’s shown pale, short and stocky and well muscled to Sherlock’s tall and willowy and lean. They would both be fair-skinned in different circumstances, but days and months and years of constant sunlight had turned Charlie freckle-tan while Sherlock remained a clear, porcelain pale. He possessed magic, Sherlock did not.   He and John had a history...well Sherlock did have that too, if not of a different sort.  Somehow, Sherlock found this all easier to dwell on than the fact that a man had just stepped out of a roaring fire who had not previously been there before.  Sherlock would come back to that later as now didn’t seem to be the time (he tucked it away with dragons, completely unsure of how to handle either and unwilling to to try at the moment with John looking the way he did).

_You can't have —_

These thoughts rushed rapid fire through Sherlock’s head as the room quieted and then dropped into a solid, physical silence when Charlie finally noticed John. His dark eyes widened, comical despite the tension.  He took a step forward, a trailing, disbelieving _John_ on his lips.  Thousands of tiny tells for countless different emotions twitched across his face but Sherlock couldn’t keep up because beside him John had frozen and that was all Sherlock could focus on.  And then John inhaled deeply and then exhaled; his body still sat tight but no longer felt as if made of stone beside Sherlock.  On another breath John stood shakily to his feet, straight-spined and stricken.  “Hello, Charlie.”

_You can't have my heart!_


	23. All Wrapped Up

John reacted on autopilot, following Charlie outside when he nodded his head to the door. It seemed the safest option; standing and staring at each other would only last so long before the awkwardness became too much or they started shouting, picking up from all those years ago.  If John had glanced back at Sherlock, he would have caught the furrow growing deep in his brow, the only indication of the confusion, concern and most importantly the jealousy that roiled beneath the surface of a mostly placid face.  But John didn’t glance back, too concerned with keeping his feet from failing him and his pace steady.  When had he gotten so drunk?

“Sobriety charm,” John said the second he and Charlie stepped outside. He almost stumbled in the snow, nearly balanced himself against Charlie’s arm and that was more than enough reason to want his reality on even footing.  “I need a sobriety charm.”

“John, that’s not--”

“‘M not talking to you until you cast the bloody charm. Or I can do it myself--”

“No, no, no, I’ll do it,” Charlie said hastily, blanching slightly at the idea; he pulled out his wand from his back pocket, fingering the wood nervously.  “But we better move over to the bushes, you’ll be sick.”

\--

John stepped away from the flutterby bushes five minutes later, shaking slightly and still a bit nauseated, bile and alcohol coating his tongue as he cast a quick _aguamenti_ to wash out his mouth; the cold water shocked his system, nearly as offputting as the charm that had just stripped the alcohol from his stomach and blood. He already missed the the warm fuzziness alcohol had limned all his thoughts and remembrances in, but he needed all his faculties to deal with this. To deal with seeing Charlie after...John swallowed, realizing it had been nearly fifteen years since he and Charlie last met each other.   

“Are you good now?” Charlie asked, handing John one of the blankets Molly must have thrust into Charlie’s hands as they walked out the door. John took it, not quite meeting Charlie’s eyes.

“Is anyone good after one of those?” John said, wrapping the brightly colored knit around his shoulders like a shawl.  Charlie grimaced his understanding, drawing his own blanket closer around himself.

“No, I suppose not.”  And then silence fell as they stared out into the snow covered yard, pointedly not looking at each other. Brown grass peeked through heat scarred spots, snow melted to nothing in the face of the warming charms that had kept them comfortable through their meal.

“I’m glad you finally came back,” Charlie said just when John thought they’d spend the rest of the night battling to speak whatever needed to be said.  “I know mum must be thrilled.”

John shrugged, or tried to, but the blanket made the movement vague at best.  More silence.

“I _am_ sorry, you know,” Charlie said before the silence could start to stretch again, the tilt of his words those of a man repeating himself.  John turned to look at him this time, and his surprise must have shown on his face because Charlie frowned.  “You didn’t read my letter?”

John glanced away once more.  “No.”

“Then why’d you come back?”

“Because I--”  John stopped, not sure how to answer.  He thought back on Sherlock’s enthusiasm and insistence, the sudden return of his magic, Greg’s advice; he’d carried an empty space inside of his chest since the day he stopped returning to the Burrow and now when he prodded it, he found it mostly filled.  The shock of Charlie’s company did nothing to diminish how _right_ that felt.  “I had no more excuses left.”

“Well that’s nice.” Charlie said it flatly, but John heard the bitterness underlying it like tar. John bristled against the tone.

“It’s not like you gave me much of a reason to want to hang around,” John shot at him and Charlie winced.  “And I tried, you know.  For years I stopped by during other holidays and weekends to see everyone, especially Molly and Teddy.  And I wrote when I could, I did, but then--”

John stopped like he always did before breaching that particular piece of his history.

“Then what, John?” Charlie asked quietly and for a moment, all wrapped up in Molly’s multicolored knitting, ankle deep in snow with over a decade of silence between them, John felt like he wanted to explain.

“Then I lost my magic.”  

Charlie didn’t say a word, but his eyes widened in horror and John knew they were thinking of the exact same moment nearly fifteen years ago.

\--

The day had shone bright, properly sunny like it hadn’t been in ages.  John had come to the Burrow at Charlie’s insistence, but refused to enter.  John had no delusions over where they were headed together, and as Charlie came out onto the lawn and they started into their now frayed and time worn argument, John knew it would be the last time.

“You’re giving up!”  Charlie said as he always did and John had heard that particular sentiment one too many times the past month for it to carry the weight it had the first time.  It still stung, though, much to John’s irritation and dismay.  Charlie stood a dueler’s distance away from John, shoulders squared and face set as if at any moment they’d draw wands and start cursing each other.  They just might.

“I’m not giving up,” John snapped, running his hands through his hair in frustration. It stuck up every which way, but he didn’t care. He should stop defending his decision, but stubbornness kept him at it.   “You have to know that.  I’m doing what I need to for my sanity.”

“And us?”  

John balked, surprised Charlie actually asked.  He thought they’d just fall apart, arguing around the same thing until John finally left and Charlie returned to Romania.  It seemed an unspoken agreement.  Apparently not.

“What about us?” John finally said after a beat of silence, genuinely at a loss. “We made it through my auror training and you fucking off to Romania to chase dragons--”

“I didn’t chase them, I--”

“That’s not the point!” John didn’t quite yell, but it was a near thing. “The _point_ is that the distance isn’t why this isn’t going to work and you know that. I’m not giving up, there’s nothing left to give up on.”  

“You’re leaving the wizarding world behind!” Charlie exclaimed and John lost the last thread of his temper as Charlie backpedaled from the painful truth and bulldozed his way back onto the same rut they’d been carving since the war ended.  

“Can you bloody blame me?  I won’t go back to the Ministry, not after the Registration,” John snarled, pacing now as the shape of their argument fell apart, as he let it. It was easier to stomp down this beaten path than to travel over the painful reasons they’d failed. “And I don’t _want_ to start at St. Mungos, I’d rather help in the muggle world.  They need healers who understand spell damage even if they don’t know it yet and it’s a good opportunity to learn about their medicine and--”

“You’re running away,” Charlie interrupted, just as eager to travel that path with John. Narrowed eyes followed John around the yard, sharp with a cruelty born of grief.  “You’re fucking running away, you _coward_.”

John saw red, hand going straight for his wand.  Charlie backed up a step but continued anyway; while John’s temper might flare quick and hot, Charlie’s stayed low and smouldering, feeding words that would eat away at the bones like acid. “You’re taking the easy way out, leaving the wreckage for the rest of us to fix while you hide with the muggles.”

“ _How dare you?_ ”  Anger clogged John’s throat, keeping the words low and strangled.  His eyes prickled painfully, his skin felt too tight, too hot. He tried to say more but his thoughts wouldn’t translate to sounds.  Short-sighted, wizard-minded idiocy--but the words infected John’s blood like tar, thick and slow-moving, a constant doubt that nagged at the back of his head for years to come, growing louder and shaping many of his future decisions; it would get him shot.

But even as John fought the urge to strangle Charlie, he still wanted to take comfort in him, in what they had been, but the war had opened up a rift that peace couldn’t possibly bridge.  Now, it gaped open between them, leaving them standing on opposite sides blaming the other for not crossing.

“I hope you get what you want, Watson,” Charlie said finally, voice like shards of ice, cutting and cold. “A nice, quiet muggle life. Think you can wish away your magic too, you know, so you’ll _really_ fit in?”

John jinxed him.  The last thing John saw before the hook-pull sensation of disapparation dragged him away was Charlie clutching at his face as it broke out into bright, angry boils.

\--

“I wasn’t thinking when I said any of that,” Charlie said rubbing a hand over his face.  “I didn’t actually mean--I was angry and grieving and had no outlet but you. I’ve regretted it ever since.”

John didn’t respond, and Charlie pressed his lips together, falling silent for a moment before asking, almost a whisper, “Did you really lose it?”

John nodded, hand unconsciously going to his wand just to be sure it was there.   “Yeah.”

“How?”

“That curse, the one I thought had malfunctioned at Hogwarts.  It actually made major injuries heal like curse wounds--scarring and all.  Muggle methods worked well enough, but when I was shot and the wound became infected, there was nothing I could do.  The infection corrupted a vital part of my circulatory system and it...took my magic.”

John could still smell the ammonia and decay thick in the air after the yellow bolt of the curse had struck him square in the chest, knocking him back.  The certainty of his death had swelled in his throat, clawing out in a scream before he realized his heart still beat.  The Death Eater had laughed at him as she collapsed to the hallway floor, bright red smeared across her teeth bared in a terrible grin even as the light had faded from her eyes.

John hadn’t understood, he was still standing, he could still join the fight raging in the halls around them and she was crumpled dead on the floor.

“John?”  Charlie had his hand outstretched as if he’d meant to shake John’s shoulder but then thought better of it.  John must have lost himself in remembrance--he seemed to be doing that a lot that night.  He shook himself of the memory, happy to leave it behind. “You okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine.”

Charlie didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t push either.  “I’m sorry about your magic.”

“Me too.”

“But you have it back?”

“As of about two weeks ago, yeah.”

Charlie gave a low whistle.  “That would explain a lot. You not coming back here.  I think mum would like to know.”

“Probably, but not tonight.”  

The silence that spooled out, while still uncomfortable, didn’t weigh as much as the last one.  John broke it this time.  “What did your letter say?”

“That I was wrong, you weren’t a coward.” He said it quickly but it cost Charlie a lot to admit that.  He never could admit when he was wrong when they were in school--John hadn’t been much better.  “I wanted to apologize.  I wanted to make sure I wasn’t the reason you stopped writing mum except for the occasional generic card.”

“No, it wasn’t you that kept me from writing,” John said honestly.  “I love your family and you being a prick wouldn’t be enough for me to give them up.”  

“Something was.”

“Maybe,” John said reluctantly, unwilling to go into the nightmare his life had become after Sherlock Left.   “But I’ve done enough soul baring for one night.  Besides it’s freezing.”

“True, I’ve lost all feeling in my bollocks,” Charlie agreed, startling a giggle out of John.  “It’s no laughing matter, they could have frostbite!”

“We should go in, then.  I’ve left Sherlock on his own more than I should have tonight.”

“Is that the curly headed bloke in the living room?”  

John nodded.

“Your boyfriend?”

“ _Charlie_ .”   
  
Charlie grinned. “Oh come on, he’s quite fit. If he’s not your boyfriend I think I might take a pass…”   
  
“Charlie!”

“Kidding, kidding!”  Charlie raised his hands placatingly, blanket falling from his shoulders to pool in the snow.  He was laughing and John followed along, much of the night’s anxiety finally melting away as he did.  “But in all seriousness, I saw the way he looked at you.  You’re a lucky man to have someone like that.”

John didn’t have a response for that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there you have it folks! A huge shoutout to aquabelacqua and iamjohnlocked4life for providing wonderful feedback and critique on this chapter. You can find both of them under the same names on tumblr and ao3! There should be about three chapters left from here, so keep an eye out!


	24. All Snowed In

They returned to the flat past midnight.

Sherlock found himself relaxing as they crossed the threshold, the familiarity of the building a balm against the sudden uncertainty and tension Charlie had aroused in him.  He wouldn’t have known he carried any of that on his shoulders if Molly hadn’t gone out of her way to reassure him.

“There’s no need to worry, dear,” she had said, patting his knee kindly.  “None at all.”

But Sherlock _had_ worried, fighting against a possessive, jealous need to check, to follow, to _understand_ what John and Charlie discussed. Just because it wasn’t his to know didn’t mean he didn’t _want_ to.  He distracted himself by demanding how the green flames of the floo system worked.  Hermione had been more than eager to fill in the gaps, Celestina mostly forgotten as she chatted away about the system’s limitations and Ministry regulations. Around the two of them, the living room had exploded into the kind of chatter that followed a particularly awkward situation, as if all parties hoped to chase it away with the noise.

They fell so easily back to silence as John and Charlie returned.  A different sort of tension, contemplative and quiet, pulled at John’s shoulders; however, Sherlock could see that John and Charlie had resolved something by the way they stood slightly closer than when they’d gone outside. Whatever bothered John now differed from before.

It followed them home, John drawn so deep into his thoughts he’d seemed surprised as Sherlock opened the door to 221, as if he couldn’t remember how they got there.

John remained silent as he started the fire with a swirl of his wand and a quiet _incendio_ , flames leaping up to chase the shadows and chill away.  With no other source of light, Sherlock couldn’t be sure that John snuck furtive looks his way.  He couldn’t, not by the evidence, but a tentative certainty crept warm across his chest all the same.  With each not-look John slanted at Sherlock, Sherlock found it difficult to keep his thoughts from wandering back to the kiss John had pressed into Sherlock’s lips, frantic and tasting of mulled mead.  John had kissed him in the dying embers of a fire, magic dissipating around them in twinkling clouds of dust.

Maybe John was thinking about it too as he stood in front of the fire, body angled just slightly towards Sherlock.  The fire crackled and chuckled in the hearth, light licking up the walls in flickering golden shadows.  They both stood still, neither making the first move to leave, to break the tension and put themselves to sleep.

“Well, I guess I should…” John said finally, slowly. Sherlock jerked out of his thoughts, heart suddenly pounding against his breastbone.

Sherlock didn’t know if he had the timing right, didn’t know if he ever would but as he and John stood alone in their own living room, fire smoldering in the hearth in a way that cast John completely in shadow--Sherlock just didn’t care. John watched him as Sherlock closed the space between them on careful steps; John’s eyes, usually so expressive, were completely unreadable in the half-light.  

“Sherlock?” Their toes nearly touched now and John had his head tilted slightly back to keep eye contact, his brow furrowed, like he had no idea what Sherlock’s intentions could possibly be.  Uncertainty nipped at Sherlock’s thoughts again, but he shoved it back before he could step aside and allow them to continue the slow, infuriating dance they’d been performing for years now.  

“Fuck it.”

And then he bent the rest of the way, pressing his lips to John’s, hands wrapping around John’s shoulders for balance, for closeness.  It was not a romantic thing to say, not really, and John would tease him about it later, but for now all he cared about existed in the way John surged forward and gripped Sherlock back, stepping close, turning a press of lips into a press of bodies.  Heat flared along every point of contact, and Sherlock groaned, relief nearly taking his knees out from under him.

Out of breath, oxygen hitching in their lungs on each inhale, they parted.

“You kissed me,” John said lamely, drawing one hand from where it had fisted in Sherlock’s shirt and pressing his fingers to his lips.  Sherlock couldn’t help but laugh.

“I was tired of waiting for you to kiss me, I thought maybe--”

“Do it again.”

Sherlock was more than happy to comply.

Outside, snow began to fall again, thick and sticky.  The fresh layer of flakes painted over the greying slush of a city well-walked and driven, coating everything in sparkling white.  By morning they would find themselves snowed in, and they wouldn’t care. Not one wit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again to aquabelacqua for betaing this for me and smoothing out the flow of this rather important chapter. We're at the end now, three more chapters to go.


	25. All I Want For Christmas is You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up, the format and POV on this one is definitely a bit different than most of those before.
> 
> If you're really not a Drarry fan, skip Christmas 2014.

_Christmas 1989_

“All I want for Christmas is yooooooooooooooouuuuuuuuuuu,” Charlie sang at the top of his voice, horribly off key, driving the pitch up as John crammed his fingers into his ears, eyes scrunched against the racket.  Charlie knew John regretted teaching him muggle Christmas carols, a regret that extended to George and Fred whenever they happened to be near enough to join in.  

“Charlie, I swear on Merlin’s soggy bollocks--”

“John! Language!”

“Sorry Mrs. Weasley.”

Charlie smirked and mouthed the lyrics exaggeratedly when John shot a glare his way.  It might have been a petty revenge for the hair-dye charm debacle, but he’d take it.  

\--

_Christmas 2012_

“All I want this Christmas is for you to come back,” John choked, turning so that he could place his forehead against the tombstone.  He felt dried out from the tears, from the whiskey.  “I’d give everything up just to have you back.”

And he meant it.  Everything.

\--

_Christmas 1999-2014_

Like every year, Charlie picked a dragon and sang to it.  His coworkers thought him insane, but they started to grow fond of the tradition, even eventually picking their own dragons to sing to.  
  
“All I want for Christmas is yoooooooooooooouuuuuuuuu,” he crooned, soft and on-key and bittersweet.  The memories stuck to each word, treacle-stubborn and unyielding, but every year they stung a bit less until, finally, they no longer hurt at all.  
  
And all he did want, as each year passed, was exactly what he had. A job he loved with creatures he respected and coworkers who dealt cheerfully with his quirks.  He’d have it no other way.  
  
And eventually he’d find the will to write and put that last bit of pain to rest.

_Christmas 2012_

Sherlock thought it a joke, a waste of resources. The little paper gripped in his hand jumbled languages together into a horribly complex cypher, one he and Mycroft shared from their childhood.  It didn’t translate to a mission, it didn’t translate to some vital piece of information. Instead it asked:

_What would you like for Christmas, brother?_

Despite its uselessness, Sherlock could not help thinking, _home_. _I want to go home._

Somewhere along the years _home_ had translated itself to a person and his own thoughts, hardly intelligible even to himself, had translated to _I want John_.

He wrote back,  _For you to stop wasting my time._

\--

_Christmas 2014_

“All I want for Christmas is you.”  

Draco would have laughed if the seriousness in Harry’s face hadn’t stopped him short.  And then Harry knelt to the ground and panicked elation flushed Draco’s neck pink; he could feel the blood rise hot into his cheeks in what must have made him a terribly blotchy sight. He didn't care.  
   
Harry had a ring, a simple elegant thing, in his upturned palm, the silver of it bright against his dark skin.  Draco stared, shocked wordless.  

“And I’d like to keep you for the rest of our Christmases to come. That is, if you’re amenable.”

Draco snorted, the panic syphoning away at Harry’s joking tone.  “‘If I’m amenable.’ Who says that?.”

Harry grinned at him.  “Well, you looked as if you were going to pass out there for a moment.”  
  
“You prick.” He took Harry’s hand, palm to palm over the silver band and pulled Harry to his feet, yanking at the last second so that Harry’s chest pressed to his, their hands trapped between.  Harry laughed, stumbling and then Draco bent his head and kissed the sound away, heart soaring.

Harry stepped back, dazed.  “Is that a yes?  'Cause if so, that’s a rather good yes.”

“Of course it’s a yes, you absurd bastard!”

And he kissed him again.   

\--

_Christmas Present_

John and Sherlock kissed in the firelight, impossibly close. Snow gathered outside, bright in the sodium light of the streetlamps, a child’s fairytale scene sketched out into reality. Their shoulders held none of the tension that had grown there for years past, all of it gone for one glorious moment as they gripped and gasped and glowed in the final realization that they had each other.

And they were together, as they were always meant to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And again, thank you thank you thank aquabelacqua for reading over this for me! You're feedback has been invaluable!


	26. St. Nicholas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter and the last one are very short, as we've reached the end and these are the more fluffy epilogue wrap-ups. Thank you all for sticking around <3 Check me out on Tumblr if you want to keep up with future Potterlock stories in this universe (Catie-brie) and a shoutout to Aquabelacqua for jumping in to correct the last of these for me! Very, very much appreciated!

The sun shining in through the curtains flared bright across Sherlock’s lids, painfully intense as only light reflected off snow could be. He burrowed under a pillow, shifting down the bed slightly as he did; his leg brushed against bare skin and coarse hair and a sudden heat thrilled down his spine as the previous night shocked him awake.  He flopped over, shaking the bed in his eagerness to check that, yes, John Watson was in fact there with him.  And already awake, if just barely.

“Happy Christmas,” John yawned, smiling blearily at Sherlock.  Beneath the sleep-softness of his expression, Sherlock saw his own disbelief etched into every familiar crease and line of John’s face.  John stretched up and kissed him, a lazy sun-bathed press of lips that melted Sherlock into him, one hand shifting to thread into the short blonde-grey hair, enjoying the soft-stiff feel of the strands against his fingertips.  John’s slid possessively to Sherlock’s waist, twitching lower to--

_Bzzzzzzzzzzz bzzzzzzz bzzzzzzz_

John groaned and Sherlock glared over his shoulder at his phone where it buzzed on the bedside table.  He knew exactly who was calling and refused to answer.  The phone stopped for a moment, long enough for them to lean into each other and then the buzzing started up again, as demanding as the caller. “Mycroft insists on dinner.”

“That sort of kills the mood, doesn’t it?”   John laughed, collapsing onto his back.  Sherlock scowled and tugged at John’s vest; he wanted nothing more than to continue forward with wherever John’s hands had planned to go, but the tilt of the sunlight across the bed indicated it was later in the morning than he had initially thought.  He dropped the hem and sighed.

“Mrs. Hudson will be up soon, anyway,” Sherlock said reluctantly, giving John a final peck on the lips before rolling out of bed, neatly tucking away the temptation to stay there indefinitely.  “I can smell biscuits.”

“Biscuits before breakfast, I can live with that. As long as there’s tea.” John stretched and then slipped out of the bed himself.  “Could do with a cuppa.”

\--

“St. Nicholas has been kind to you,” Mrs. Hudson said, and while she eyed the pile of gifts beneath the tree, her tone held a strong measure of knowing that made John blush and Sherlock smirk.  


	27. Christmas Morning

One of John’s favorite memories stemmed from his first year at Hogwarts.  

It grew from the roots of the school, from tables pushed together to create a space for the misfits and orphans, a surface that creaked warningly beneath the weight of a feast far too extravagant for the few people crowded around it.  It crackled and warmed him to the bones, familiar and foreign all at once.  It was home. Outside, snow fell in heavy, wet clumps that threatened entrapment within the castle walls, but John couldn’t have cared less.  

Beside him, a girl with ever-changing hair and the nose of a pug, whiskers and all, grinned at him.

“Isn’t it magical?” she said, waving an arm up at the ceiling swirling with the same desperate snow that fell outside.  Sometimes John found himself staring at the enchantments through meals, the novelty never having worn off despite months of sitting beneath it; he gave himself away as the muggle-raised wizard that he was when he did that, but sometimes he found Tonks staring too, and she was wizard-born.

“Well, yeah, I rather think that’s the point,” he said, laughing. She shoved him, laughing along with him and her features shifted back to pink-cheeked and fully human.

“You know what I meant.”

And John smiled brightly at her because he did.  He had found a place to belong to, had found a friend who abandoned Christmas Hols with her family saying, “they’re such dull affairs and everyone insists on calling me Nymphadora.  I _hate_ that!” but really meaning “I would never leave a friend alone on Christmas.”

And now John, grown up and battle beaten, nestled on a lumpy couch next to an impossible man, sharing tea and gifts with the world’s most patient landlady on Christmas morning, felt the same crackling warmth he had all those years ago.

“Happy Christmas,” he said into his tea, smiling at the fact that he meant it.  Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson echoed it back to him, both amused and indulgent and, in a flash, he went from smiling to beaming.

Happy Christmas, indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone who has stuck with this though to the end. This become something utterly warm and rather self-indulgent for me to write, and I am happy that others have enjoyed it as well. 
> 
> That being said, I very much plan to continue stories within this universe and actively invite you to hop into my inbox on tumblr with any questions, comments or even information requests. I have a series of ficlets that I want to do based on a couple questions and musings I've already received about this particular Potterlock verse.
> 
> The next actively planned fic is the pub night where John gives Greg a fuller rundown on his magical history--I can't promise that one will be anywhere near as fluffy as this fic was though. Anyway, stick around, hit subscribe for future Potterlock, leave a comment, what have you! Thank you everyone and see you in the near future <3 -CB

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on [Tumblr](http://catie-brie.tumblr.com/) where I would love to answer questions, comments, chats or just have you as a friendly stalker. It's also where I periodically post about fanfic I am working on.
> 
> Kudos and comments, as always, are greatly appreciated.


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